


Where You Lead

by KathSilver



Series: Call My Name [1]
Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: 11!Verse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And the boys are idiots but it's okay, Angst, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, I'm not only combining the books and movies but i'm fixing everything, Lightning does a thing, M/M, Minor Character Death, Newt deserved better, POV Newt, POV Thomas, Slow Burn, The Fever Code Spoilers, and then changing plot, back in time, but it'll be a damn sight better than the original version, i make the canon now, if all goes well this will become a series, look at me, move over james, the characters belong to me, they all did, this won't be all sunshine and roses, thomas cries over underwear, you're fired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-03-18 03:01:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 54,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13672899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KathSilver/pseuds/KathSilver
Summary: After Newt's death, Thomas can't settle at the Safe Haven. He goes out during a storm and is struck by lightning- only to find that he has been sent a year into the past, it’s his first day in the Glade, and he can remember EVERYTHING. And, because Thomas still had some of Newts blood on him somewhere, so can Newt. Cue the boys falling in love and trying to rewrite history.**A mixture of the books and movies, rewritten together into something more. This is the equivalent of me saying "Hold my beer." to James and Wes, because if you want something done right you've got to do it yourself.





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Talk Me Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13874430) by [comebacknow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/comebacknow/pseuds/comebacknow). 



> Hello! Okay so Newt's movie death destroyed me and I can't deal, so I'm rewriting the damn story in a way that doesn't have me sobbing over a glass of wine anymore. They deserved so much better. Anyways the idea for this fic came from my all time favorite Clexa fanfiction, which I will link if that's your type of thing. This is currently unbetaed so speak up if you see any glaring errors, and if you want to beta then hit me up. You can find me on tumblr, user 'allyouholdonto'.
> 
> *Sadly this plot and characters belong not to me, but instead to a man who doesn't deserve them*
> 
> ***For a prequel of this series, read Talk Me Home by comebacknow which is a canon compliant prequel up to Chapter 12.

_“Please, Tommy. Please.”_

The words echoed in his head over and over as he walked, a demented chorus that shredded his heart and his resolve with every breath. The sand was moving between his toes- cold and wet, with bits of shell stabbing into the flesh. But he didn’t care. It’s not like he could feel it.

_“And I remember you.”_

It didn’t matter that some of the words had been written, he still heard them in his voice. His voice that boomed and cracked when under pressure, that was deep and melodious when they were alone or whispering quietly, but high and strong enough to carry along a battlefield. God, how he hated that he knew what that voice sounded like screaming across a battlefield.

The rain was coming harder now, with thunder booming in time to the pounding in his heart in a sickly staccato beat that focused its pressure on the healing scab on his chest, shoving the phantom blade deeper with each pulse. In the lightning he saw his demons crowding him with the faces of those he failed to save, the people who deserved this paradise far more than he did, that would never get the chance to see it. 

_“Thank you for being my friend.”_

Right, some friend he was. Thomas walked on, willing the rain to cleanse him, to do something to ease the numbness in his limbs and chase the ghost from his skin. He knew he had to live, he did. But could anyone call this living? Minho looked the same as Thomas did, and Gally pushed forward with such a brutal take on positivity that you could tell his entire motto of being was now “What Would Chuck Do?”, as though Gally decided that his penance to the world was to not let it know that Chuck was no longer in it. And if you focused hard enough, you could taste the salt of Frypan’s tears in the stew he’d made every night since Thomas shared the letter with him, the stew he made in honor of Newt. 

Newt.

Fuck, but he couldn’t take it anymore.

In the background of the storm Thomas could make out voices calling his name, calling him back to the huts and away from the treacherous wind and fury of the skies- but didn’t he belong with treachery and fury? Isn’t that what he deserved, what he became in the end? 

Thomas’ fingers shook with the feeling of a blade piercing flesh- it was with him every minute of every night and day. And he couldn’t take it.

_“Take it!”_

The letter that rang in his head with everything left unsaid, undone, unfinished, God it wasn’t FAIR, it wasn’t right, it was wrong, wrong, wrongwrongwrongwrongwrongwrongWRONG-

“eeeeaUUUUUUUUUGHHHHHHHHHH!”

Thomas screamed his pain into the night, challenging the gods to right this wrong in the universe, to take him instead, to stop the pain in his heart if they wouldn’t stop it from beating altogether.

His tears mixed with the rain as he poured his heart, tattered and useless thing that it was, into his voice, screaming his vocal chords raw.

_“If I could do it all over again, I would, and I wouldn’t change a thing.”_

Funny, because the last thought to cross his mind before the lightning struck and blackness overtook his vision was that if he could?

Thomas would change it all.


	2. Rebirth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt wakes up, alive and terrified, and attempts to put the pieces together and figure out what the hell is going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Me again! Super stoked by the response I’ve gotten from this in the few hours it’s been up, thanks guys. Updates probably aren’t going to fall into a super strict schedule at first, at least not until I get into the swing of things. There will be long chapters, short chapters, some will be from Thomas’s point of view, and others from Newt. It’ll be worth it if you can bear with me though! 
> 
> Unbetaed.

_His veins were on fire and the itch in his brain was too much, too much to cope with. The flaring white light in his chest was the only thing allowing him to think clearly, and all he could think was that Thomas did it. It’s over, it’s finally over._

_Thomas had saved him from hell, and he was finally free._

Newt woke up screaming bloody murder into the void, lashing out so violently that he nearly tipped himself from his hammock and went sprawling across the roughly hewn floors. Rough hands grabbed him and held him upright, and in his disoriented state he called out for the only person who made any sense.

“Tommy?”

The hands helping him to steady himself tensed, and then pulled away, before Alby’s confused face came into view with his brows furrowed in concern.

“Who the hell is ‘Tommy’?” he asked.

Newt’s heart skidded to a halt and he felt like he was about to have a bloody heart attack, which was extremely ironic given the fact that he’d just Cranked out before being stabbed to death. But here was Alby, right in front of his face. Alby who hadn’t been stung by Griever’s, an Alby that was safe and sane and most importantly _breathing_.

“Alby, you’re alive!”

Newt’s mouth worked before his brain could tell it to shut up, and his arms were tight around the other boy’s neck before Newt could force himself to stay still. He didn’t know if this was heaven or hell, but whichever it was he was grateful for this chance to see his friend one more time.

His breathing came in ragged gasps and his body shook so hard that he couldn’t stop it. Alby’s arms closed around him in the briefest of hugs, before withdrawing and holding him at arm’s length, inspecting every part of him he could see.

“Slim it, Newt. Have you been stung?” Alby asked urgently. “Seriously were you stung or something? Of course, I’m alive, what’s the matter with you?”

This didn’t make sense. Newt shook his head to clear it, trying to buy himself time to calm down and think. He was dead, very dead, because Thomas had stabbed him in the bloody heart, finally, and he’d bled out on the ground in the Last City and was glad for it. But if this was heaven or hell, and he could remember his own death, then surely it stood to reason that Alby should be able to remember his too. So why couldn’t he? Trepidation crept along his insides like the fog that invaded the Glade the day that the Sun turned off in the sky.

But that hadn’t happened yet, had it?

Newt gulped for air and tried to get his emotions under control enough so that he could test his theory, and before Alby called in the med-jacks to give him a once-over.

“Sorry mate,” Newt mumbled, shaking his head again. “Didn’ mean to scare ya. Must’ve been a buggin’ nightmare.”

Alby raised a single dark eyebrow in disbelief, before removing his hands from Newt’s shoulders.

“A nightmare.”

Newt brought his shaking hand to wipe at the cold sweat that had built up on his brow, how the fuck was he going to explain this? It was impossible, that’s what it was. How was he here, why was he here, what the actual fuck was going on?

He briefly entertained the possibility that everything he’d experienced had been manufactured by WCKD, projected into his brain by a bloody chip to see the effects it would have on his white blood cells or some klunk. But that didn’t make sense, because they really only cared about the immune’s, not him. All he was to them was their bloody control subject. Or was he? Was that a lie they fed his brain to see what it would do to affect him? Would they do that? **Could** they do that? Newt’s heart began to race at the possibility, but he was struck by the memory of amber eyes searching his for any sign of hope, of life. Newt began his litany of Alby, Winston, Chuck, Thomas… grounding himself in the emotions the names invoked. The memory. He didn’t care how much technology WCKD had available to them, there’s no way they manufactured all of that. None.

“Yeah, you shank. It’s a thing where at night you see horrible things that make you want to scream? Half the lads here have them on a weekly basis? Ever heard of it?” Newt responded, hoping that he could hide his internal freak out behind sarcasm, as he once had done.

Alby stood, leaving Newt’s hammock to swing gently back and forth at the loss of his presence. “Then who is this ‘Tommy’ shank? Last I checked I don’t look like no shuckin’ ‘Tommy’, Newt. Have we ever even had one here?”

Tommy. Newt squeezed his eyes shut to keep himself from focusing too much on the last time he saw Tommy clearly, lying beneath Newt and holding him back for his own safety.

Assuring him in a calm voice that everything was okay, when it wasn’t. Newt appreciated the thought though.

“I have no buggin’ clue Alby,” He lied. “Just leftover from the nightmare I s’pose.”

Alby clearly didn’t believe him, but it didn’t look like he was going to push it either, which was a blessing and a half. Newt needed to figure out what the hell was happening before he messed it all up or got himself banished by speaking out of turn, or made anyone suspicious. The last thing he needed was to be labelled a loon and tossed into the bloody slammer. But living in the Glade felt like a lifetime ago, literally, and he had no idea how to behave normally anymore. Was he even using the slang correctly?

“If you say so. Wake up is soon, better get your head together. It’s Greenie day.”

Alby left the room before noticing the shell-shocked expression on Newt’s face.

Greenie day? Quickly he got out of his hammock and raced to the make-shift calendar he kept in the corner to mark the days, something he’d begun when he first arrived in the Glade and was certain they’d find their way out soon. He’d never broken the habit, despite the teasing of the others, but now it looked as though it was about to pay off. Was it possible that today would be the day? Which Greenie would be arriving? How far back had he gone? Swiftly he counted, straining his brain to remember when exactly he was in this current timeline. If the day matched the day in his memory… Newt’s stomach felt as though it dropped from his chest to the floor.

Today was the day that Thomas would come up in the box.

 

Or, well, that's what he assumed was going to happen. Impossible to be sure, really, until the moment came. Newt did what he could to calm his breathing, and to remember what it was he did that day, before the box arrived. Should he keep everything as close to what happened last time, or say screw it and do what he wanted, which was to go and sit and stare at that box until it rose up from the ground. If it was Thomas inside it, then Newt would know for sure.

For sure that it wasn't just a dream.

The implications of what he thought happened started closing in on him. What all could he change? Could anyone be saved?

Would he have to suffer through the Flare all over again?

That thought struck him dumb, and his bad leg almost gave out from underneath him as the panic rose to choke his throat and alter his breathing. He wouldn't go through that again, he couldn't. The first time was enough thank you **very** much. But if he could save the others, stop WCKD sooner, then maybe... maybe he could avoid the Cranks? He knew that the virus was airborne near the Last City, so if they just stayed away from it...

Guilt flooded him as he thought about all the other immunes who would be trapped in that dungeon if they didn't go in to rescue them. Children, stuck in that torture chamber to either die at the hands of WCKD, or be murdered by the mob who sacked the City.

No, they would have to go. But this time, they wouldn't send the serum with Brenda. Newt would grab a vial and keep it on him, administer it, buy himself more time. Or he would end it, far away from Thomas, maybe mess up his landing when jumping from the window. Something, he would do something before it got as far as it did the last time around.  
Fuck, but what if they don't meet Brenda? What if he changes too much, alters the timeline? What if Newt single handedly manages to change so much that the outcome ends up being so much worse than what had already happened? Was that even possible?

Newt was getting a headache, and it was time for wake up. His existential crisis would have to wait.

Besides, maybe it'll be some other Greenie coming up in the box, and it was all a dream, and Newt will forget about it soon enough... but he knew. He knew that was a lie.

He closed his eyes, spoke the names of his friends in his head one more time, a litany and prayer that had helped to keep him grounded during the worst of times, and prepared to face the day and what it brought. One step at a time.

The strangest thing, hands down, about walking around the Glade, was how simple it was to fall back into the routine. The same sights, the same smells, the same fake wind and sunlight... Honestly, now that he has felt the real kind, not the manufactured and stale WCKD version, it was hard for Newt to believe that he'd ever thought that what they experienced behind these walls was the real thing. Never mind the fact that he'd had no memory of anything like that when he'd sprouted from the box, but still. It was difficult to cope with the difference.

Now if only he could stop flinching and remembering how each person he passed died as he looked at their faces, Newt might be able to function like a semi-normal human being. The most he'd done to slip up, ignoring the mess with Alby this morning, was get misty eyed when he saw Chuck running around in excitement over the incoming Greenie. Oh, how his heart ached to hear that innocent voice laughing again. If there was any death he would be damned sure he avoided, it would be Chuck's.

Newt was just getting into the swing of his back hoe and eavesdropping on the other gardeners to relearn how often they used their own slang, when he heard it. The alarm announcing the arrival of the box. A cold sweat broke out all over him and his nerves were on high alert, because this was the moment of truth. The rest of the boys raced to the box, eager to see the new guy, to give him hell, to bask in the fact that at this point in time they weren’t the ones who knew nothing, that someone knows less than they do. The cheers and jeers were as much a part of the tradition as the welcoming bon fire they would hold later that night.

Newt walked slowly, keeping himself far away from the group when last time he knew that he'd been right by the edge, to watch. To keep ahold of himself. If it was Tommy, he knew what he would see. Thomas would come up from the box, look around, and then make a break for it- sprinting like hell before his legs would get tangled and he would trip.

If it wasn't him, Newt didn't know what he would do. What it would mean. What if it wasn't him? What if he did not, in fact, go back in time? What if Newt had actually gone crazy or WCKD did cook it all up and project it into his brain?

The boys lowered the rope into the box, and Thomas climbed out of it.

Fuck.

Newt's heart started racing, because holy shit. That was him. Thomas. No scars, no dirt. Perfectly clean and healthy, and any minute now he would run away. But he didn't.

Thomas didn't sprint. Instead he was looking out at the Glader's, and it seemed like the man was about to bloody pass out or puke or do something... and his gaze seemed to be fixated on Chuck. Thomas' chest was heaving, and as soon as he could tear his gaze away from Chuck, he started scanning the crowd, madly searching. To the rest of the boys it probably seemed like he was trying to figure out where the hell he was, but Newt knew him too well to be fooled.

Alby was trying to talk to him, to give the customary greeting, but Thomas point blank ignored him in favor of searching, searching, and then stopping. His eyes found Newt's, and Newt's chest heaved the echo of a sob.

Because Newt knew those eyes, he knew what he saw in them, and that was not the look of a Greenie who was confused and terrified, that was the look of a man who couldn't believe his eyes, who had gone to hell and back, and was full of so much hope that what he was looking at was real that it felt like it was about to break them a part.

Thomas remembered, Newt was sure of it.

Trust Thomas to make sure that Newt wasn’t left here alone.


	3. Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas can't decide what is going on with his emotions, but he does know that he doesn't want to waste a moment of this dream of his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me again, posting after only a few days because apparently I have a problem. Honestly at this rate the fic will be done by the end of the month. I truly should keep to a schedule or something but... I'm awful at denying myself. Thomas's POV this time darlings!

“Nice to meet ya shank,” Alby said. “Welcome to the Glade.”

There were hands swarming around him, and they didn’t stop until Thomas stood dazed and panic stricken, and had the dust brushed from his pants. Overcome with what he was seeing, he staggered a bit. He was consumed with curiosity but logic and what he was seeing right in front of his eyes didn’t quite match up anymore.

As he rotated in a slow circle, brain trying to catch up with his eyes, going over every single detail he could feast his eyes upon, the other kids snickered and stared; some reached out to poke him with a finger. There they all were, all the faces that haunted him whether he was asleep or awake. He remembered lightning, had the lightning sent him into a coma? Was he dreaming this? It was exactly like how he remembered. Thomas suddenly felt dizzy, his eyes flickering between the boys and the crazy ass situation he found himself in. Until his eyes found Chuck, and then he didn’t really see much else at all.

“Look at the Greenbean,” Gally said. “Gonna break his shuck neck checkin’ out the new digs.” Several boys laughed.

“Shut your hole, Gally,” Alby responded.

Thomas tried to spread his focus around, to tear his eyes away from Chuck and the pounding in his veins. Everything was the same, everything was exactly the fucking same. He knew he must look out of it- there’s only so much of reliving the first day of your life a person can handle before they start to freak out. Waking up in the Box was bad enough, but this dream was feeling too realistic for comfort and Thomas was starting to officially freak the fuck out. Ben sniffed at him, his face devoid of emotion. Chuck fidgeted back and forth on his feet, looking up at Thomas with wide eyes. Could he tell that Thomas had been staring right at him? Minho folded his arms as he studied Thomas, his tight shirtsleeves rolled up to show off his biceps, because of course they were. Alby frowned, and countless others stared.

Everything was exactly the same.

“What the fuck,” Thomas said.

“Just slim yourself nice and calm,” Alby said, but Thomas ignored him.

“Which Keeper he gonna get?” Winston shouted from the back of the crowd.

“I told ya, shuck-face,” Gally responded. “He’s a klunk, so he’ll be a Slopper- no doubt about it.”

Everything. Every word, every action, every single detail was exactly the same… except for one. Newt. Where was Newt? He should’ve been right there, to the right of Alby and a little behind, standing in the circle with the others. But he wasn’t. Maybe this was a dream, a nightmare, because even in this he couldn’t see the one person he needed to see the most.

Different emotions battled for dominance in his mind and heart. Confusion. Curiosity. Panic. Fear. But laced through it all was the dark feeling of utter hopelessness, like the world had ended for him, had taken and taken and taken from him and decided to give part of his request in return, but not the whole thing. No one was looking at him with anything like recognition, and he still couldn’t find Newt. Last time, last time he’d been running by now. Freaked out and afraid, sprinting towards some distance that he didn’t know. But now his feet were rooted to the spot and he couldn’t, not until he was  _positive_ that Newt wasn’t there somewhere.

Someone was talking. “-even do that much, bet my liver on it.” Thomas didn’t bother looking for the face, there was only one he wanted to see.

“I said shut your holes!” Alby yelled. “Keep yapping and next break’ll be cut in half!”

Thomas kept scanning the crowd until finally, finally he found him. Hiding near the back, but why hadn’t he come closer? Every other detail was the same, so why wasn’t Newt where he was supposed to be?

And then Thomas met his eyes, and a dry sob escaped his throat- and he saw it echoed in Newt. Newt. There he was; no green veins, no fluid dripping from his mouth, no knife sticking out of his chest. He was right there, right in from of him, and his eyes were a storm. The look on that face wasn’t of a Glader meeting a Greenie for the first time, that was  _his_ Newt. The Newt he’d gone through hell with, for, alongside. The man who’d comforted him next to campfires and supported him through thick and thin. Who told him when he was being stupid yet stood by his side through his idiotic decisions. That was him, and he was shaking. They both were. How could this be real?

If Newt could remember everything, and Thomas was fairly certain that he did, why didn’t everyone else? Thomas was half a second away from sprinting directly into Newt’s arms when Alby started speaking again.

“It’s a long story, shank,” Alby said. “Piece by piece, you’ll learn- I’ll be takin’ you on the tour tomorrow. Till then… just don’t break anything.” He held a hand out. “Name’s Alby.” He waited, clearly wanting to shake hands.

And this time? Thomas reached out and took his hand, and then echoed the words he had said a long time ago. He should try to keep things as close to what happened before, right? Until he figured everything out? “Then tell me. Tell me the long story.”

Alby glanced at the friends close to him but gave Thomas a small smile. Clearly shaking his hand this time around made a clear difference in Alby’s opinion of him.

“Seriously,” Thomas asked, voice shaking but not for the reasons the Gladers believed. “Where am I?”

Alby shook his head. “If you ain’t scared,” he said, “you ain’t human. Act any different and I’d throw you off the Cliff because it’d mean you’re a psycho.”

“The Cliff?” Thomas asked, though he knew his voice was too steady.

“Shuck it,” Alby said, rubbing his eyes. “Ain’t no way to start these conversations, you get me? We don’t kill shanks like you here, I promise. Just try and avoid being killed, survive, whatever.”

He paused, and Thomas realized that Alby was exasperated with himself, but the man was trying.

“Man,” Alby said, then ran his hands over his short hair as he let out a long sigh. “I ain’t good at this- you’re the first Greenbean since Nick was killed.”

Thomas noticed movement behind Alby and saw Newt approaching slowly, almost fearfully, boring holes into Thomas with his eyes. “Wait for the bloody tour, Alby,” he said, his voice shaking just enough that Thomas could tell. “Kid’s gonna have a buggin’ heart attack, nothin’ even been heard yet.” He extended a pale, shaking hand toward Thomas. “Name’s Newt, Greenie, and we’d all be right cheery if ya’d forgive our klunk-for-brains new leader, here.”

Thomas reached out, and when he shook Newt’s hand he knew he held it too tightly, too long, too everything, but that touch was the most electric thing he’d ever felt, which is honestly saying something since Thomas was becoming increasingly certain that he’d just literally been struck by lightning.

“Pipe it, shuck-face,” Alby said, clapping Newt on the shoulder. “At least he can understand  _half_ of my words.” There were a few scattered laughs, and then everyone packed in behind Newt and Alby, gathering to hear what they said.

Alby spread his arms, palms up. “This place is called the Glade, all right? It’s where we live, where we eat, where we sleep- we call ourselves the Gladers. That’s all you-“

“Who sent me here?” Thomas demanded, hoping if he kept to the original script that he’d be left alone with Newt for however long again. “How’d—”

But Alby’s hand shot out before he could finish and gripped his should tightly, getting slightly in his face.

“No interruptions, boy!” Alby said, not yelling like he had last time but still not kind. “Whacker, if we told you everything, you’d die on the spot, right after you klunked your pants. Baggers’d drag you off, and you ain’t no good to us then, are ya?”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Thomas said slowly, sure to keep his voice steady, because he knew which part was coming next.

Newt reached out and grabbed Alby by the shoulders. “Alby, lay off a bit. You’re hurtin’ more than helpin’, ya know?”

Alby let go of him and stepped back, shaking his head. “Ain’t got time to be nice, Greenbean. Old life’s over, new life’s begun. Learn the rules quick, listen, don’t talk. You get me?”

Thomas looked over at Newt, who gave him a slow nod, his eyebrows subtly questioning. Everything inside Thomas churned and hurt; the tears that had yet to come burned his eyes.

“Greenie, you get him, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Good that,” Alby said. “First Day. That’s what today is for you, shank. Night’s comin’, Runners’ll be back soon. The Box came late today, ain’t got time for the Tour. Tomorrow morning, right after the wake-up.” He turned to Newt. “Get him a bed, get him caught up, get him ready for the fun tonight.”

“Good that,” Newt said.

Alby’s eyes returned to Thomas, narrowing. “A few weeks, you’ll be happy, shank. You’ll be happy and helpin’. None of us knew jack on First Day, you neither. New life begins tomorrow.”

Alby turned and pushed his way through the crowd, which dispersed in his wake. Soon enough he was left with Newt. Finally. But how could he be sure that Newt remembered? That this was, in fact, his Newt. Thomas no longer felt compelled to follow the script, because that wouldn’t get him answers and he  **needed** to know.

Newt turned and went in the direction of a few huts- which was Newt’s second deviation from what occurred in Thomas’s memory. He decided to go for it.

“I get the feeling that I’ll follow you anywhere,” Thomas said, his heart in his voice, tears barely restrained. He hoped the allusion was strong enough to work, if this wasn’t actually his Newt then he had no idea what he would do, but the shoulders of the boy in front of him tensed, and he halted mid-step, before spinning around in a desperate half-circle. His eyes were full of hope and disbelief and tears threatening to spill over and- embarrassment?

Newt gave something that seemed to be half sob, half laugh, as he replied. “Because of course you read the bloody letter.”

Thomas sure as hell hoped that no one was watching, that the trees gave them enough cover, because at that point he couldn’t help but throw his arms around Newt and cry his entire fucking heart out. Newt caught him in his arms and squeezed just as tightly, and Thomas felt hot tears dropping onto his neck.

And then Thomas pushed him off, gently, took a giant breath, and feverishly whispered, hoping to regain his calm and keep them from drawing too much attention.

“What’s going on, Newt? This doesn’t feel like a dream, and you’re the only other person who remembers, I have no idea what’s going on but you’re here, you’re  _here_ and I can’t…” he trailed off, frustrated, getting worked up again.

Newt’s chest was heaving, and his fingers kept flexing like they wanted to be grabbing hold of Thomas and not letting go, Newt licked his lips and shook his head a minute before responding. “As bloody weird as this sounds, I think we’ve gone back in time. I’ve no idea how, the last thing I remember, was—" Newt gulped, tears filled his eyes and emotion clogged his voice. “You. I remember you, and fighting, and then losing control, and then… and then dying. I think.”

Once again Thomas could feel the blade in his fingers, sinking into flesh with a cold finality. “I never thought I would see you again,” he whispered.

“I thought that somehow dying sent me here, that this was heaven or hell, but you’re here. And it’s **you** , not like the rest of everyone who have no idea what’s going on.” At this, Newt drew himself up, and anger colored his cheeks and sharpened his eyes. “So, my question to you is why the bloody buggering hell are you here, Tommy? Don’t you tell me that you died too. Don’t you do it.”

God, Thomas wanted nothing more than to hold him close, to prove that he was alive again. That this was real, but they were running out of time. “Listen, we only have a few more minutes before Chuck is going to pop up so we have to hurry. Tonight, at the bon fire, we need to sneak away and get to the med-jacks room, okay? It’s important.”

He needed medical supplies and a few hours where no one would be looking for him and Newt, because he would be damned if he lost him again. Not happening. Not when he had a chance to nip that shit in the bud here and now, honestly it was all Thomas could do not to draw him there this very instant. Newt’s face screwed up in confusion and irritation.

“What do the med-jacks have to do with anything? And you didn’t answer me, Thomas. Why are you here.”

“Lightning,” Thomas sighed, running a hand over his face. “I’m fairly certain that I was struck by lightning, alright? Now, look, I’m serious abou—”

_"Lightning?!"_  Newt exclaimed. “You’ve got to be bloody joking. After everything we went through, lightning is what does it? Where the fuck were you that lightning was a danger in the first place! There wasn’t a storm the night we rescued Minho.”

It took Newt a moment to think over the words he spoke and watching him come to the realization was almost as heartbreaking as having him die in his arms.

“Tommy, there wasn’t a storm the night I died, was there?” he asked.

“You mean the night you forced me to murder you? No, there wasn’t.”

Thomas knew that was harsh, but some small part of him that didn’t quite believe what was happening, that was still bitter and broken and disbelieving, couldn’t forgive Newt for giving up. For begging Thomas to end it. If they’ve truly gone back in time then they’d have to have a conversation about it eventually to clear the air and have their grief, but now was not the time. Thankfully, Newt seemed to understand that because for once he didn’t call Thomas out on his shit.

Newt’s Adam’s apple bobbed slowly, and his eyes fell shut, grief and regret making his features momentarily gaunt. “How-how long have I been dead?”

Memory after memory of the sleepless nights, the never-ending days, the nightmares, the tears, and the heartache that had filled the time between the moment he’d killed Newt and now made it impossible to give an accurate perspective of time. “Days, weeks, month’s,” Thomas shrugged. “Long enough. Too long.”

Thomas could tell that Newt wanted to ask more, to know more, but the other man’s hands were shaking, and Thomas didn’t actually think he’d ever seen him that pale before now. It was heart-rending, but the sound of someone crunching through the leaves signaled the end of their time alone. Thomas blinked back tears and watched Newt do the same, before the pale boy spoke with a voice like nails, “Chuckie ‘ere will be in charge of your sleepin’ arrangements.”

And before Thomas had the chance to even consider moving forward to offer what comfort he could, Newt had turned away from him and began to walk away.

Thomas took a step back and slid down the rough face of the tree until he sat on the ground; he shrank back against the bark and closed his eyes, wishing he could wake up from this terrible, wonderful dream. And simultaneously wishing he never woke up again.


	4. Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas finds absolution in change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't begin to thank everyone for the amazing response this story has gotten, and the support you've all given. I hope I don't let you down. I'm considering making a playlist for this fic that would get updated with each chapter, sort of giving an audio journey along with the story, so let me know through comments if that'd be something you're all interested in.

Thomas sat there for several moments, too overwhelmed to move. He finally forced himself to look over at the haggard building. A group of boys milled around outside, glancing around at the others and making fun.

A metallic clicking sound from the branches above grabbed his attention, made him look up; a flash of silver and red light caught his eyes just before disappearing around the tree, craning his neck for a sign of whatever he’d heard, but he saw only bare branches, gray and brown, forking out like skeleton fingers—and looking just as alive. Those little spies would be everywhere, and Thomas would have to be careful to make sure he dodged them, or else risk letting WCKD in on the fact that two people inside the maze knew more than they should.

“That was one of them beetle blades,” Chuck said.

Thomas turned to his right and once again he was struck by such an intense sadness that he had no idea how to keep it from showing on his face. Almost reflexively he went to reach inside his pocket for the small totem Chuck had once given him, that he kept on him at all times, before realizing that it wasn’t there. Although memory, both muscle and brain, seemed to have made the journey, nothing physical ended up with Thomas… wherever he was now.

Thomas cleared his throat and nodded at him. “A beetle what?”

“Beetle blade,” Chuck said, pointing to the top of the tree. “Won’t hurt ya unless you’re stupid enough to touch one of them.” He paused. “Shank.” He didn’t sound comfortable saying the last word, as if he hadn’t quite grasped the slang of the Glade.

He held out his hand. “My name’s Chuck. I was the Greenbean until you showed up.”

_“Find my parents, Thomas.”_

Thomas couldn’t shake his extreme discomfort, and pain. The sense of failure. Nothing was making sense and his head hurt. He was having an easier time remembering what it was he had said and done the first time he experienced this the longer he went along. It was like the world’s worst case of Deja-vu.

“Why is everyone calling me Greenbean?” he asked, shaking Chuck’s hand quickly, then letting go before he was tempted to stuff him into his pocket and protect him until the end of his days. Which would be so much longer than last time, by God if Thomas had any say in this whatsoever Chuck was getting out of here alive.

“Cuz you’re the newest Newbie.” Chuck pointed at Thomas and laughed.

Thomas shook his head and got to his feet, ready for Chuck to start leading the way around the Glade; he could really use the time to think and figure out what happened. How it could possibly be that he and Newt had gone back in time? Why only the two of them? It couldn’t be because they’d both died, not when so many others had as well. It had to be something to do with the lightning, that was the only common point.

Newt had already been dead, so all of this hinged on Thomas, on what he had done to trigger this course of events. He’d been in the rain, walking, screaming, dying inside and begging someone, anyone, to make that death real, and then he’d been struck. It was just Thomas, alone, no Newt. He bit his lip, not paying too much attention to Chuck’s narration of the Glade since he’d heard it all before anyway and wasn’t required to speak for it. Thomas was deep in thought, trying to apply logic to something that was literally impossible, when he realized that he was trying to grasp for a necklace that wasn’t there. That hopefully would never be there.

Thomas nearly tripped over himself at the realization. He was wearing the necklace, and even the clothes, that he’d been wearing the night Newt had died. Not like he’d worn them often, the clothes. Only when he was feeling particularly sorry for himself and hating everything more than usual. But between those two items, and shoddy washing abilities, it was entirely possible that some of Newt’s blood had been on him somewhere when the lightning had struck. Could that have been it? Was that the missing piece?

The sudden silence drew Thomas from his reverie, Chuck was looking at him like he was supposed to say something.

“Chuck, how… old do you think I am?”

The boy scanned him up and down. “I’d say you’re sixteen. And in case you were wondering, five foot nine… brown hair. Oh, and ugly as a fried liver on a stick.”

Close, but wrong. Add another year Chuckie, due to extenuating circumstances.

“Are you serious?” He paused, searching for words. “How…” He didn’t even know what to ask.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be all whacked for a few days, but then you’ll get used to this place. I have. We live here, this is it. Better than living in a pile of klunk.” He squinted, maybe anticipating Thomas’s question. “ _Klunk’s_ another word for poo. Poo makes a klunk sounds when it falls in our pee pots.”

Thomas looked at Chuck, and although this was the second time he was having this conversation, it didn’t make it any easier to believe. “That’s nice” was all he was able to manage. He walked past Chuck toward the old building again; a shack was a better word for it. It looked three or four stories high and about to fall down at any minute—a crazy assortment of logs and boards and thick twine and windows seemingly thrown together at random, the massive, ivy-strewn stone walls rising up behind it. As he moved across the courtyard, the distinct smell of firewood and some kind of meat cooking made his stomach grumble. He could see boys in the distance gathering the last odds and ends they would need for the welcoming bon fire, where Thomas would steal Newt away and hopefully accomplish the impossible.

“What’s your name?” Chuck asked from behind, running to catch up.

“What?”

“Your _name_? You still haven’t told us—and I know you remember that much.”

“Thomas.”

“Nice to meet you, Thomas.” Chuck said. “Don’t you worry, I’ll take care of you. I’ve been here a whole month, and I know the place inside out. You can count on Chuck, okay?”

Now Thomas was torn. Last time, he’d gone off in search of the maze and immediately gotten further on Gally’s shit list for it, which was not something he needed if this whole thing was not actually a dream. So instead he stayed with Chuck and was guided to where they slept, where he attempted to fumble his way through setting up a hammock.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Newt limping in the direction of the doors, a slight look of confusion on his face. When he glanced over at Thomas, Thomas shook his head as if to say ‘No, we don’t need the trouble if we can avoid it.’ Newt raised his eyebrow, but continued to walk to the doors, ready to greet the runners when they came in for the night. His color was a little better than earlier; clearly, he’d managed to get at least a small grip on himself, and anything else could be taken care of when they finally had more than a few moments to speak at the bon fire.

The shadows from the walls had lengthened considerably, already creeping up the sides of the ivy-covered stone faces on the other side.

The scenery around him was comforting in a nostalgic way- the wooden buildings crouched in the northwest corner, wedged in a darkening patch of shadow, the grove of trees in the southwest. The farm area, where a few workers were still picking their way through the fields, spread across the entire northeast quarter of the Glade. The animals were in the southeast corner, mooing and crowing and baying.

In the exact middle of the courtyard, the still gaping hold of the Box lay open, as if inviting him to jump back in and go back to his own time. Near that, maybe twenty feet to the south, stood a squat building made of rough concrete blocks, a menacing iron door its only entrance—there were no windows. A large round handle resembling a steel steering wheel marked the only way to open the door, just like something within a submarine.

Time passed slowly, so damn slowly, as Thomas waited for the bon fire to begin, but eventually Chuck dragged him out to where the delicious smells of cooking meat and wood smoke originated from.

Thomas started to plan things out in his head. First, food. The stress was eating him alive and he hadn’t eaten in… well honestly, he had no idea. This body didn’t get a meal today and Thomas’s brain was reminding him that he hadn’t been eating all that much in the Safe Haven, either. So, first was food, and then once Gally’s special drinks broke out and started making the rounds, he would find Newt and drag him to where the med-jacks kept their supplies. If all went well, the booze and the wrestling matches would be enough to keep everyone distracted while Thomas performed a simple little procedure that he’d never actually been taught how to do before.

Right. Great plan.

Frypan looked Thomas up and down before giving him a healthy amount of food, including some meat on a stick. “Better bulk up, Greenie. No skinny shanks will survive long out here.”

Thomas nodded his thanks- if Frypan had made stew tonight Thomas didn’t think he’d be able to keep himself together. This Frypan looked so much happier, so much more at ease, that it was almost difficult to look at. Surrounding him was a sea of faces that, the last time Thomas had seen them, were painted with blood and terror. It was difficult not to lose his appetite.

Soon, though, his hunger won out and he took a huge bite. The wonderful tastes of ham and cheese and mayonnaise filled his mouth.

“Ah, man,” Thomas mumbled through a mouthful. “I was starving.”

“Called it.” Chuck chomped into his own sandwich.

They were sat on a log, a small way away from the main bon fire itself, silently enjoying their meal, when Newt sidled in, slipped between Thomas and Chuck, and took his seat in the exact same manner that he had last time.

The near contact forced Thomas to take a deep breath and brace himself to keep his composure. The neural disconnect of having two people sitting next to him that his heart still mourned was disorienting, to say the least, and at any given moment Thomas was a hairsbreadth away from turning into a screaming, sobbing mess, begging for their forgiveness. He’d never meant to fail them so both devastatingly, so thoroughly, and if this was truly the universe giving him a second chance then he would rip himself to shreds to ensure that it didn’t happen again. He was already broken, it wasn’t like he was worth much anyway. And if this was just a fever dream before he awoke then at the very least he would wake up knowing that in at least one version of this story he’d done right by those he loved most. Sure, the waking up would kill him, but life wasn’t worth living anymore anyway.

“Alright there, Tommy?”

Thomas’s breath caught and by the time he looked at Newt, _his Newt_ , Chuck had already gone, leaving the two as alone as they were likely to get in the next few hours. With the risk of being eavesdropped on low, Thomas couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“I’m sorry, Newt. I’m so fucking sorry—”

Newt screwed his eyes shut before launching himself to his feet, dragging Thomas up with him, and when he spoke it was as shaky as Thomas felt. “Not here, mate. C’mon.”

His eyes blurred with tears, his self-control shattering under Newt’s touch, and he could barely tell where he was being led. He was vaguely aware of Newt speaking to others as they passed them by, explaining their disappearance away, “First Day freak-out finally hit, gonna get ‘im away from the shuck faces that’d give ‘im problems. He’ll be righ’ as rain after a bit, be back later.”

He heard voices mummering understanding, and before he knew it Thomas was standing in the middle of the med-jacks shack, and his arms were full of a sobbing Newt. That was the last straw. Thomas held the sobbing boy in his arms and let the flood gates pour open as every emotion he’d kept bottled in since he woke up in the elevator for the second time rained out through his tears. The sobs were body jerking, and before he knew it they were sitting on the floor in one inconsolable mass, crying out the terror and pain and sorrow and guilt that they each bore- not just in regards to the other, but in regards to being surrounded by all of those they’d buried, that they’d failed. They cried for their fallen friends, for their lost innocence, for the daunting prospect of having to live through it all once more when they knew very well that to lose their friends a second time would, in fact, break them so utterly that repair was out of the question.

Before Thomas realized it, they were both talking, apologizing and begging forgiveness—giving forgiveness and peace where they could. In that moment, holding Newt in his arms, Thomas no longer blamed him for begging Thomas to kill him. For forcing his hand. Feeling the still beating heart inside Newt’s chest thumping wildly along with his own went a long way to sooth that wound, until he understood the newest words falling out of his companion’s mouth.

“I can’t live through that again, Tommy. I- I can’t get sick again, lose myself again, I’m not bloody strong enough I swear, I can’t do it—"

Thomas removed Newt’s still sobbing form from where it rested against his chest and held him forward, there was so little room between their faces that they were breathing the same air, and Thomas could taste Newt’s breath on his lips while he stared deeply into his eyes. Thomas cleared his throat and the words that came out were far steadier than he thought they would be when he managed to speak.

“You won’t, Newt. Not happening. Not an option, you understand me?” Thomas said. Immediately Newt’s head started shaking, but Thomas lifted him up into the air and planted Newt in the chair the med-jacks used for patients before rummaging around in the drawers for the supplies he would need.

“Tommy—”

“No. I don’t know how much you remember, how far gone you were when- well. While- while that was all happening, Teresa came on over the loud speaker.”

“ _Teresa?!_ What does that traitorous bint have to do with—”

“Shut up and listen for five shucking seconds or I swear to God I’ll knock you out for this.”

Newt shut his jaw in surprise and blinked, anger starting to color his cheeks.

“Good that. As I was saying, she came on over the loud speaker in the city and begged me to come back to the lab, because I could save you. We had the cure the whole time, Newt. The whole goddamn time and it was right there in front of us and you know the shitty part?” While Thomas spoke, he’d drawn his blood and begun to mimic the process that he’d seen Mary do for Brenda all of those long months ago. He was careful, so damn careful, because any wrong move would mean that he would lose Newt all over again, and that was the one thing he couldn’t handle. Hell, given his current situation it was fair to say he hadn’t exactly handled it the first time anyway.

“If we had listened to Teresa while we were in WCKD, when she was talking about Brenda’s survival, we could have saved you,” Thomas continued, and he heard Newt’s breath hitch in his throat, though confusion still sat on his brow and in his eyes. Thomas finished the distillation and went directly for an auto-injector before marching up to Newt like a man on a mission.

Newt looked to be close to hyperventilating and the tears were still streaming down his eyes, but the hope on his face felt like absolution.

“I’m the cure, Newt, and I know you said that if you could do it all over again you wouldn’t change a thing,” Thomas whispered before jamming the auto-injector into Newt with a satisfying finality.  Their faces were close enough that Thomas could see the exact moment that understanding dawned on Newt’s face, and the realization sunk in. “But I’m not you, and I’ll be damned if I lose you again.”


	5. Uprising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prepare the masses, cause this means War.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have zero self control when it comes to not posting immediately. Also just an FYI, there is no pattern to when we get Newt's POV or when we get Thomas's. We will probably have more Thomas than Newt, but Newt will get his time. Promise!

“You want to do what? I must have heard you incorrectly,” Newt exclaimed. “Must’ve been that buggin’ injection because I know there’s no actual way that the words my brain is telling me came out of your mouth were what was said.”

Thomas felt he was being just a _little_ bit dramatic.

The pair were still seated in the med-jack shack, out of tears and revelations for the moment. They’d spent the past hour with Thomas catching Newt up on the events that transpired after he’d died, and Thomas almost felt guilty for the roller coaster ride that Newt had just been on. Newt had been able to _begrudgingly_ give Teresa a bit of credit, alongside his horror about Thomas’s near-death experience with the gunshot wound from Jansen. Ultimately, though, it was difficult to get an accurate read on what exactly Newt was thinking. He supposed there was just so much for them both to sort through that although it might feel as though they were temporarily strangers, as far as reading each other’s minds was concerned, the pressure of where their legs touched, the solace they found in each other’s company, was enough to assure Thomas that this, too, would pass.

Newt’s dramatics were another thing all together.

“Look, we know how to get out of the Maze. We know what’s waiting on the other side. For once in what we can remember of our lives, we have the upper hand! But we can’t actually _do_ anything about it unless we tell the others what’s going on.”

“They’ll lock us in the slammer.”

“No, they won’t.”

“You’re right, they’ll banish us instead.”

“Okay well if it comes to that, I know exactly how to survive that stupid thing overnight, but we don’t need to worry about that because they _won’t_.”

“Gally will murder you.”

At that, Thomas had to pause a little.

“Okay, maybe. But maybe not. I’ve sort of been deliberately avoiding him and leaving him the hell alone.”

“So _that’s_ what you were about, hangin’ on to Chuckie like a lost pup?” Newt asked, interest finally piqued.

Thomas chuckled and ran his palm down his face. “Well it sure wasn’t so that I could sit through his explanation over what the swear words mean for the second time. The first was weird enough, thanks.”

Newt groaned his laughter before sighing. “Feels weird, yeah?” he asked. At Thomas’s questioning grunt he explained further. “The slang, everything. We sort of fell out of those habits after we left the maze the last time ‘round. I honestly feel like I could use Chuckie’s lesson to keep up! Had a bloody tough time not givin’ myself away before you showed up.”

 

The pair fell into a comfortable silence before Newt spoke up again, his voice softer now, the words harder to hear. “I’m sorry, mate. About the letter. At the time I thought it was necessary, keep ya from beatin’ yourself up too much. Say g’bye and all that. Looks to have done more harm than good if it got you struck by bloody lightning.”

In response, Thomas reached over and took Newt’s hand in his. It was dry, skin cracked a little bit, covered in calluses from working the garden and wielding his machete for the past three years that this Newt’s body had been in the Glade.

“Please don’t apologize for that, Newt. Ever.” Thomas ran his thumb over Newt’s knuckles, oblivious to the effect it was having on the boy sitting next to him. “I don’t so much think it was you following me, as us following each other. I was more lost without the letter and wouldn’t have lasted as long as I had without it. It… it was perfect, so thank you. And thank _you_ for being _my_ friend, but please never try to say ‘goodbye’ to me again.”

“Bloody hell, Tommy, d’you have the damn thing memorized?”

“Yes.”

Thomas should maybe have felt awkward or embarrassed by the confession, by the way Newt’s fingers reflexively gripped his harder before releasing them, but he didn’t. There were many things, he felt, that he needed to be ashamed of, but his adoration and need of Newt’s letter simply was not one of them. All too soon, Newt took back his hand and used it to ruffle his hair.

“We do this? We spill the beans? I’m takin’ the lead. The Gladers don’t actually know you yet mate, it won’t go over nearly as well, you hear me?”

“Yeah, I hear you.”

“Right, but do you really? Because your track record for doing as you’re told is not exactly stellar.”

Honestly, some people took things a little too personally, in Thomas’s opinion. “I hear you Newt, I swear. This is too important to not be handled as delicately as possible. Too many lives on the line. But it has to be tomorrow, preferably before wake up, or else we’re gonna lose Ben to the Grievers again.”

Newt nodded his agreement, “That could work. I’m supposed to grab you and drag you to the Maze to catch a glance of a Griever anyway, so instead I’ll just get you and take you to the Council Room before waking the others.”

Course of action decided upon, Newt left his chair and dragged Thomas out of his as well, looking down at the mark from the auto-injector in his arm with wonder. “Now, if there’s nothing else that needs to be done to me for this cure of yours, really anticlimactic by the way, you’ve got a party to get to.”

Thomas groaned and made to sit back in the chair, but Newt was having none of it. He frog-marched Thomas out of the shack towards the direction of the blaze, “Now, now, Tommy—you’re supposed to be the guest of honor!”

At the earliest opportunity, Thomas would get him back for this, he swore it.

All too soon the next day dawned, and someone shook Thomas awake. His eyes snapped open to see a too-close face staring down at him, everything around them still shadowed by the darkness of early morning. He opened his mouth to speak but a cold hand clamped down on it, gripping it shut. Thomas shot a dark glare at the offender, knowing full well who it was before his eyes finished focusing.

“Shh, Greenie. Don’t wanna be wakin’ Chuckie, now do we?”

It was Newt- a wicked smirk on hips lips and mirth in his eyes. Many things had changed in the year they’d known each other, but Newt’s love of dragging Thomas’s sorry ass out of bed at ungodly hours of the morning was not one of them.

Thomas nodded, rolling his eyes, until Newt took his hand away, then leaned back on his heels.

“Come on, Greenie,” the tall boy whispered as he stood. He reached down and helped Thomas to his feet—he was so strong it felt like he could rip Thomas’s arm off. “Supposed to show ya somethin’ before the wake up.”

Any lingering haze of sleep had already vanished from Thomas’s mind, remembering the task they were trying to accomplish today. “Okay.” He said simply, ready to follow. He knew he should try to keep up appearances for the sake of any who had awoken to their rustling, though it was hard to hide his nerves. “Where are we going?”

“Just follow me,” Newt said, a soft smile acknowledging the special meaning behind the words. “And stay close.”

 _As close as you’ll let me_ , Thomas thought.

They snuck their way through the tightly strewn pack of sleeping bodies, Thomas almost tripping several times. He stepped on someone’s hand, earning a sharp cry of pain in return, then a punch on the calf.

“Sorry,” he whispered, shrugging at the dirty look from Newt. He was aware he stepped on the same person as last time but damn it they _really_ shouldn’t have their hand there.

Once they left the lawn area and stepped onto the hard gray stone of the courtyard floor, Newt broke into a run, heading for the Council Room. Thomas took a deep breath to brace himself but snapped out of it quickly and followed at the same pace.

The light was dim, but any obstructions loomed as darker shadows and he was able to make his way quickly along. He stopped when Newt did, right next to the building where their fates were likely to be decided. Newt clasped Thomas’s shoulder, preparing to go and wake the others needed for the meeting. “Do a check of the building first, if you don’t mind.” Newt jerked his head in the direction of the red blinking lights scampering across the wall nearby. No WCKD spies were welcome for this meeting.  “I’ll be along quickly with the others.”

And then he was off, and Thomas made himself busy checking any and everywhere that a small camera could possibly be hiding at the moment. Luckily the Beetle Blades weren’t exactly inconspicuous, and WCKD didn’t so much care what happened in the meetings, not from what Thomas remembered. Monitoring brain activity’s reaction to stimuli was more their focus, but it didn’t hurt to be careful.

Time seemed to drag on forever as he waited, but it still felt too soon when Newt arrived with the group of very sleepy, and very confused, leaders of the Glade. Newt had even managed to grab Minho before he left for the Maze, and Thomas nearly had a heart attack at the sight of him. Happy, healthy, not fresh from a torture chamber. The cognitive dissonance here was nearly overwhelming, Thomas has no idea how Newt was handling it so well. One by one they took their seats; Alby, Minho, Winston, Frypan, Clint, and Gally- all of them throwing a confused, or even slightly hostile in Gally’s case, look in Thomas’s direction, wondering why the hell he was there.

Newt came up to stand next to Thomas, before facing the group and heaving a huge sigh. Thomas was nervous, so nervous, that his hands were shaking. There was no way they were going to believe him, and this might have been his dumbest plan yet. Why hadn’t Newt stopped him?! Before Newt had worked out what exactly he was going to say, Alby spoke.

“So, you gonna tell us why you knew this shank was comin’ up hours before he got here? I’m assuming that Thomas here was the ‘Tommy’ you was crin’ out for.”

Thomas looked over at Newt, because what now? He swore he could _feel_ the way Newt used his whole body to roll his eyes. “Look, what’d you expect alright? You were the last thing I saw before I died and suddenly I was bloody breathin’ again, slim it.”

Well, that was one way to gently ease them into the idea of time travel, but Thomas still couldn’t help the smirk from forming at the thought of Newt calling out for him.

“You wanna run that by me again?” Minho asked, slack jawed.

Newt put his head in his hands and groaned, clearly at a loss for words. Thomas kept his promise though, and didn’t say a word, though he could feel Gally’s intense stare boring into the side of his face.

“Look, what we have to say, you’re not going to believe. You’re just not. But I’m gonna need ya to do it anyway, alright? Just slim it and let me tell you a story, without you lot pipin’ up every few seconds, and once I get it all out we can get to the actual convincing portion.”

It was a mark of how well trusted and respected Newt was in the Glade that he slowly got assent from each and every one of the Keepers, save one. Gally turned towards Thomas first, squared his shoulders, and asked a question like a demand.

“Have I seen you before?”

Thomas felt Newt still beside him, but the only thing that would get them anywhere at this point was honesty. “Yes,” he answered.

Gally’s eyebrows shot straight to his hairline, clearly not expecting that answer. His eyes narrowed, considering. “Tell me honestly where, and I’ll listen to whatever story you slintheads spin.”

Before Newt could stop him, like he knew he wanted to, Thomas spat out his answer, bracing himself for what he was almost positive was coming next. “I helped design this Maze, and then I helped to send you all up here.” Angry gasps echoed throughout the room, but the only reaction that mattered at that point was Gally’s.

Gally nodded to himself before standing up, launching himself across the room, decking Thomas across the face so hard that he nearly flipped backwards, and then returning to his chair as though nothing had happened, ignoring the shouts from the others. "Alright, shuck faces. Now I'm listening.”

Thomas massaged his jaw, knowing that the punch was likely coming didn’t make taking it that much easier, but it was worth it for the way Gally crossed his arms and leaned back, his attention once again focused on Newt.

“Bloody hell, if you’re done then?” Newt asked, exasperation prevalent in his tone. “Good that. Now, remember, I’m aware you’re not going to believe a buggin’ word I say, but you’re gonna listen to it anyway.”

And without further ado, Newt spoke. He stood there and told their story, as bluntly and succinctly as he could manage, without leaving anything out. He didn’t skip over a single death, a single tough choice, a single gruesome detail. Newt told the others of their escape from the maze, the facility, the Scorch, the Red Arm, the Flare, the Cranks, everything. And Thomas watched the flood of facial expressions from the Keepers, ranging from disbelief to terror to curiosity to outright devastation. Gally hadn’t taken his hand in the death of Chuck very well at all.

By the time Newt had finished with his own horrible demise and reappearance in the Glade, the sound of wake up in the Glade began to filter in through the cracks of the Council Building. Boys going about their duties, Runners heading out for the morning, Sloppers starting clean up from the bon fire.

Silence rang throughout the room.

“And then you woke up screamin’, scarin’ the klunk outta me, and askin’ for this shuck face.” Alby finished for Newt, however it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. Newt, whose voice had to be sore at this point, nodded.

“Okay, say I believe that much,” Frypan said, “How are you here again? Newt Cranked out and died, but there’s some of the story missing. Who all made it to the Safe Haven?”

Thomas cleared his throat before taking up the reins, detailing his journey through WCKD Headquarters, their escape, life at the Safe Haven, and finally his trip through the storm. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since I woke up in that elevator again. It had to have been the lightning, and blood. I was wearing the clothes I’d been wearing the night Newt—" Thomas had to stop, even now he couldn’t finish the damn sentence. “And his necklace that he’d given me. Somewhere on me some of Newt’s blood had to have been there still, that’s the only thing that has any possibility of making sense. I mean none of this makes any sense, but there you go. Now we are here, we know things that WCKD has no idea that we know, and we can use it to our advantage. Get the hell out of here and change it all.”

It was silent again, for long, long minutes, as everyone digested this information. Minho spoke next.

“Out of everyone in this Glade, you’re telling me that only 4 of us finish the story alive?” He whispered, sadness and disbelief heavy on his tongue. “Well, I guess only 3 since you apparently went and got yourself struck by lightning and, presumably, also died.”

Thomas nodded, tears forming in his eyes, once again reminded of all of those he’d failed. He felt the glare from Newt at the mention of being killed by lightning but chose to ignore it in favor of meeting the gaze of everyone in the room.

“Look,” Newt said. “We know it’s impossible, but we’ve also been sittin’ inside a buggin’ maze for 3 years, trapped, havin’ new people and supplies sent up by a mysterious entity, and been terrorized by monstrous creatures. How much less believable is time travel compared to all that?”

Silence.

Thomas was starting to get antsy, any minute now Ben could be stung by the Griever and if they didn’t get ahold of him before he attacked Thomas, they’d have to banish him all over again. As ridiculous as it was, time was really not their friend at the moment. First Ben, then Teresa… and then only a few days before she woke up and triggered the Ending and they’d lose any sort of upper hand they could possibly have.

Minho, god bless him, had apparently also registered the danger to his Runner and momentarily excused himself to grab the first boy he saw outside of the Council Building. His instructions could be heard through the thin walls and the stuffy silence inside. “I want two shanks posted at the West entrance, understand? The moment Ben comes out, I want you to grab him, and drag him straight to this room. Good that?”

“Good that.”

Minho came back inside and took his seat once more, running his hand through his hair before acknowledging the raised eyebrows of everyone around him. “What?” he shrugged. “It’s the next thing to happen on their timeline, can’t hurt to check it. And _if_ they’re right, we need to keep him from attacking the Greenie in front of everyone. I don’t feel like another banishing, do you?”

No one could fault him for that, and Thomas felt some of the tension leak from his shoulders at Minho’s words, before he realized that Minho was watching him closely, head cocked to the side.

“You wanted me to do that.” Minho stated, and Thomas nodded his agreement. “Hmm.”

For the third time, silence descended upon the room. Newt seemed content to let everyone sit and digest all they’d been told, but Thomas was starting to get impatient. Luckily, Clint now had questions, which were better than nothing.

“So, what, the goal is to skip the steps you went through last time?” he asked.

“Essentially, yes,” Newt answered. “Knowing what we know now, we can save so many more lives. There’s no need for Thomas, Minho and Alby to spend the night in the Maze, no need to wait on Teresa to help figure out the code, no need to wait until a veritable army of Grievers are stationed outside that bloody hole waiting to slaughter us all- we might even manage to avoid going to the facility altogether,” Newt was clearly going to continue, but Thomas had started shaking his head. “What, Tommy?”

The nickname was not missed by the others in the room.

“We have to go to the facility still, it’s how we meet up with Aris, who get’s us to Brenda, who get’s us to Group B, and Sonya,” Thomas reminded him, starting to be a little disheartened by how little they could change between the lines of their major decisions. He wasn’t expecting Newt’s face to screw up in confusion, however.

“While I understand the importance of getting to those working towards Safe Haven, and that Aris was the key to them letting us in, I don’t get the significance of Sonya in particular?”

Oh, shit. Thomas felt his eyes widen- how could he have forgotten? Newt had been dead when Harriet had gotten Sonya drunk and she’d told all of them the truth, the truth that WCKD had tortured her to allow her to remember. Newt glared at him, god he was in so much trouble.

“What are you not telling me?” He demanded.

“When she and the others were taken to WCKD, they allowed some of them to regain their memories. It made them easier to torture, get a better grip. And Sonya, back at the Safe Haven, well she told us what she remembered.” Thomas gulped.

“Out with it, we haven’t got all bloody day. What terrible secret was she harboring?”

“Well, Sonya, who is tall, blonde, and speaks with an extremely familiar accent, is also your little sister.” Thomas braced himself for the impact, but when no hit came, he opened his eyes and saw that every person in the room was completely gob smacked.

_“You’re only telling me this now?!”_

There it was.

“I’m sorry! I was a little more concerned with the fact that suddenly I’m a year in the past and making sure you never die in my arms again!” Thomas shouted back, at his wits end.

Newt opened his mouth and started to point, a sure sign of anger amassing, when they were interrupted by Alby.

“What?” he asked.

“What, what?” Thomas responded, chest heaving.

“What did you mean by making sure Newt doesn’t die in your arms again?” Alby clarified.

Thomas sighed, wiping his face with his palms before resting them on his hips.

“Last night we snuck away from the bon fire and into the med-jacks shack, sorry Clint, and I gave him the cure. Which is a serum made from a distillation of my blood, apparently.” Thomas explained, and he couldn’t help but notice the small look of protective satisfaction that crossed the faces of every Keeper there. Newt was beloved by all, and it was reassuring to Thomas that even though they were spinning a story that was so impossible it couldn’t be believed, they still cared.

“Good.”

Silence, again. Newt was still in shock, but Thomas didn’t know what to do, what to say, where to put his hands.

“Look,” Thomas began. “I know its crazy, but what happens now? Matters. Especially you, Gally.”

Gally jerked at the sound of his name, finally coming back to Earth. “Why me?” he asked.

“Because,” Newt answered. “You being with us? Believing us? Is the difference between thousands of lives lost or not. You going with us means you don’t get stung a hundred times, means you don’t try to shoot Tommy, means you don’t hit Chuck, means Minho doesn’t throw a spear in your chest and we leave you, assuming you’re dead.”

“Which means that you don’t get picked up by those crazies in the Last City, so you don’t give them access to all of the mechanics in WCKD’s security, and they don’t destroy the last real settlement of humanity,” Thomas finished.

The impact of one small decision was… intense, when phrased like that. He and Newt had to be careful, so damn careful, not to ruin everything on accident. Gally gulped.

“I’m on board for not killing the only shank in this stupid place that’s like a little brother to us all, annoying as he his, but if I heard you right the first time, didn’t you need me WITH the group of crazies so that you could sneak into the City?”

Shit. He wasn’t wrong. Thomas hadn’t thought of that.

“We could find another way in,” He started to suggest, but Newt was shaking his head.

“Not bloody likely, you really think that people spent years trying to get in there wouldn’t have found another way?”

“I don’t care, we aren’t leaving Gally behind, we aren’t leaving _anyone_ behind. Not this time, not when we know ahead of time,” Thomas argued. “We will figure it out. We won’t be on a time limit because we aren’t going to let Teresa betray us, or let Minho get taken, or have you catch the Flare, none of it. It isn’t happening. The only reason we are breaking in is to rescue the rest of the immunes from that hell, that’s it.”

“Right,” Newt sighed. “You’re right. But without them getting taken we will have to come up with some other way to steal a Berg or else none of it will work anyway.”

Thomas nodded his agreement, lost in thought, not noticing the incredulous looks the other boys were giving the two of them. Thomas wasn’t able to stay lost in thought for long, however, because after a few moments shouts rang out, and someone was banging on the door for Minho.

“Ben! It’s Ben! He’s been stung!”

For a moment, all faces were fixed on Thomas and Newt, but before they sprang into action Clint ran to the door, shouting for Ben to be taken to the med-jack shack immediately for administration of the serum. With a look back at the others he said, “I believe you, shuck it, I know it’s crazy, but I do.” Clint’s gaze focused on Thomas. “You can save them?” he asked.

Thomas didn’t need clarification on who ‘them’ was. Not from the person in charge of the health of every soul in this Glade. “Yes, I think this time I can.”

Clint nodded. “Then stay, and plan, and figure out how. I’ll handle Ben.”

With that he was out the door, and the remaining Keepers crossed their arms, contemplation on their faces. They didn’t look completely convinced, but they looked willing. Willing to take a small bet on the possibility that maybe they could get out of here alive.

Minho clapped his hands, rubbing them together. “Alright, Greenie. Let’s plan a War.”

Thomas looked at Newt, and they smiled.


	6. Hate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt holds grudges, to his surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this one is super short compared to the last, but it's just how it needed to be broken up. Besides I post like every other day, you'll get more content soon.

Newt held Thomas back for a moment after the others filed out of the Council Building, rushing to duties that had been delayed for too long already. As soon as they left, Newt reached up and smacked Thomas upside the back of his head.

"A sister, Tommy? And you didn't think that was worth telling me while we had that hours long heart to heart last night?!"

Thomas had the decency to at least look ashamed of himself, and Newt wasn’t mad, not really. He still had plenty of time before he actually met the girl- well, met her again. Not to mention that Thomas had spent the night making sure that Newt never had to go through that horrible disease again, a miracle, and not one that Newt was sure he believed. It was an impossible thing, it seemed too easy, too clean, but perhaps that’s because he’s only considering the fact that Thomas just shows up with a cure and jabs it into his arm… and isn’t considering that the both of them had to literally die in order for Newt to live.

Newt had always known that Thomas would be the one to save him, he just hadn’t known how many ways Thomas would manage to do it in. Last night, seated next to each other, touching from shoulder to leg as though the thought of being parted was terrifying, was the most cathartic thing he’d ever experienced. He’d never felt more cared for, more completely at ease, than when Thomas had taken his hand in his own like it was the easiest thing on the planet.

There was the subtlest change between the two of them, since they’d both come back. It was slight, but there. Not that they weren’t extremely close beforehand, but there was something about getting a second chance to do it _right_ that was drawing the two of them together even more.

And Thomas kept mentioning that _bloody letter_. Newt wasn’t sure if it was a blessing or a curse that he had it memorized.

“I’m sorry, Newt. It wasn’t on purpose, I swear,” Thomas said, regret heavy in his tone. Newt couldn’t help but ruffle his hair and knock their shoulders together.

“S’alright, just had to give you shit about it,” Newt said. “But you’ll tell me everything about her later, yeah?” Thomas nodded so quickly that Newt had to chuckle and resist the urge to touch him again. To save himself from doing something stupid like grabbing his hand, Newt cleared his throat and nodded in the direction of the Keepers who’d left after their little planning session. “D’you think they actually believe us, or that they’re humoring us?”

Thomas looked at him and shrugged before replying, “Well even if they didn’t just then, they’re about to either start believing us or start calling us traitors.”

Newt frowned his confusion, so Thomas elaborated. “In about 5 minutes the alarm for the Box is going to sound, and Teresa will be showing up.”

Understanding dawned, but Newt didn’t get a chance to comment because the alarm chose to ring at that very moment. Newt raised a brow at Thomas, who gave the little half smile he never wore enough. “What? I’m a time-traveler, not a seer. I was only a little off.”

Newt thought he might actually hurt himself from rolling his eyes so hard and chose to race off to welcome the reason he’d died to the Glade instead of commenting.

At that moment Newt was glad that Thomas wasn’t a mind reader, because he truly didn’t feel like being chastised for thinking of her as the reason he’d died, but it was true. Completely bugging true. Newt shouldered the other boys out of the way, moving through the crowd and making his way towards where Alby stood near the Box, gob smacked even though he’d been told this was about to happen. A quick glance around the Glade told him that all of the Keepers were just as shocked as Alby was, which, _really?_ Newt locked eyes with Minho and gave him a look that screamed “I fucking told you”, to which Minho made several exaggerated hand gestures and shrugged.

Yes, Minho, he was aware of how crazy this was, believe him.

Almost on reflex Newt looked for Tommy, and found him standing next to Chuckie, who was talking his ear off. Not that Thomas seemed to mind. It was easy to tell that the older boy was barely listening to the kid, but the smile on Tommy’s face at the words was as completely genuine. Chuckie was like the little brother to all of the Gladers and it warmed Newt’s heart to see him animated and describing things instead of the way Newt normally saw him in his nightmares.

The arrival of the box forced Newt away from darker thoughts.

A muffled boom announced that the bizarre elevator had arrived. Newt and Alby took positions on opposite sides of the shaft door—a crack split the metal square right down the middle. Simple hook-handles were attached on both sides, and together they yanked them apart. With a metallic scrape the doors were opened, and a puff of dust from the surrounding stone rose into the air.

Complete silence settled over the Gladers, as Newt leaned over to get a better look into the Box, the faint bleating of a goat in the distance echoed across the courtyard. Yep, there she was. The traitorous leech herself. Newt didn’t feel the need to keep inspecting her, he’d seen her before. He’d seen her as she betrayed them all and got Minho caught by WCKD, forcing them to rescue him, and putting Newt near the Last City which of course had an _airborne_ version of the virus. Laying there, looking as dead as she’d made Newt become was the person that Newt, for all intents and purposes, considered his murderer. Newt’s face scrunched up in disgust. “Holy…” he breathed. He’d never felt hatred so strongly before, not even when infected.

By this time, Alby had gotten a good look as well, with a slightly different reaction. Bloke was freaking the fuck out. “No way,” he murmured, almost in a trance.

A chorus of questions filled the air as everyone began pushing forward to get a look into the small opening.

“Hold on!” Alby yelled, silencing everyone. “Just hold on!”

“Well, what’s wrong?” someone yelled back.

Alby stood up, and Newt watched as he physically calmed himself down and got a grip, remembering that he also had a part to play. “Two Newbies in two days,” he said, almost in a whisper, glancing at Newt and away again quickly. “Now this. Two years, nothing different, now this.”

“Why don’t you just tell us what the shuck is down there, Alby?” Gally called out. There were more murmurs and another surge forward.

“You shanks shut up!” Alby yell, before gesturing at Newt. “Tell ‘em, Newt.”

Newt looked down in the Box one more time. _Liar. Manipulator. Traitor. Murderer._ “It’s a girl,” he said.

Everyone started talking at once; Newt only caught pieces here and there.

“A _girl_?”

“I got dibs!”

“What’s she look like?”

“How old is she?”

Newt shushed them again. “That’s not the bloody half of it,” he recited from memory, before pointing at the Box. “I think she’s dead.” _If only._

A couple of boys grabbed some ropes made from ivy vines and lowered Newt and Alby into the Box so they could retrieve Teresa’s body. A mood of reserved shock had come over most of the Gladers, who were milling about with solemn faces, kicking loose rocks and not saying much at all. No one dared admit they couldn’t wait to see the girl, but Newt couldn’t blame them from being curious. He had been too, once.

Gally was one of the boys holding the ropes, ready to hoist the three of them out of the Box, his eyes a little wider than they had any right to be. Newt got it, he did, but he’d had a couple days of freaking out underneath his belt at this point and was eager for the others to catch up. Without saying a word, he helped Alby tie up Teresa and watched as Gally hauled her out, followed shortly by the two of them. Teresa’s body was lain out on the stone near the Box, and Newt tried not to be creeped out by the way everyone crowded around her.

He and Alby made their way over, with Alby muttering out loud, “Shuck it, can’t be a coincidence. One maybe, but two?!”

Newt noted the slight change in dialogue and readied himself to loudly talk about anything at all if Alby let his shock give everything away.

“Are you—” Newt began, but then Teresa jackknifed into a sitting position, gasping for air and shuck it if it wasn’t _just_ as creepy as the last time she’d done it. As she sucked in a huge breath, her eyes snapped open and she blinked, looking around at the crowd surrounding her. Alby cried out and fell backward. Newt stumbled away from his flailing body, trying to look Teresa over for any sign that she remembered everything as well, but found none.

Burning blue eyes darted back and forth as she took deep breaths. Her pink lips trembled as she mumbled something over and over, indecipherable. Then she spoke one sentence—her voice hollow and haunted, but clear.

_“Everything is going to change.”_

Newt stared, unimpressed, as her eyes rolled up into her head and she fell back to the ground. Her right fist shot into the air as she landed, staying rigid after she grew still, pointing toward the sky. Clutched in her hand was that blasted wadded up piece of paper. Newt limped forward, trying not to glare too hard at her lifeless form, the form he found he preferred most in regards to her, and pulled out the piece of paper. With cold fingers he unfolded it, then went to his knees to spread it out for everyone to see.

Scrawled across the paper in thick black letters were five words:

**She’s the last one.**

**Ever.**

_Yep_ Newt thought, _Just as creepy as the last time._

**_Bitch._ **


	7. Loop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The more things change, the more they stay the same.

An odd moment of complete silence hung over the Glade. It was as if a supernatural wind had swept through the place and sucked out all sound. Newt had read the message aloud for those who couldn’t see the paper, but instead of erupting in confusion, the Gladers all stood dumb-founded.

Thomas would’ve expected shouts and questions, arguments. But no one said a word; all eyes were glued to the girl, now lying there as if asleep, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Contrary to their original conclusion, she was very much alive.

Newt stood, clearly glaring at Teresa, and gritting his teeth. Thomas supposed he shouldn’t really be surprised by the anger, but honestly, he was a bit too focused on dealing with the revelation that it wasn’t the Teresa from before. He’d checked her eyes, her face, everything, looking for any sign that she remembered, but nothing. Thomas couldn’t tell if he wasn’t disappointed or relieved, and he hated himself for it. It would have been good to see her again, to fully make amends, to have another who knew the hell they sprouted from, but… But. This Teresa hadn’t yet betrayed them. Hadn’t strayed. This Teresa could still be reasoned with, could still be turned, now that Thomas knew the right arguments to use. Problem was that he’d have to keep Newt from killing her first.

Alby cupped his hands around his mouth. “Med-jacks!”

Clint and Jeff were pushing their way through the crowd—one was tall with a buzz cut, his nose the size of a fat lemon. The other was short and actually had grey hair already conquering the black on the sides of his head.

“So what do we do with her?” Jeff, the taller one, asked, his voice always so much higher than Thomas thinks it will be.

“How should I know?” Alby said. “You two shanks are the med-jacks—figure it out.”

Clint was already on the ground, kneeling beside Teresa, feeling for her pulse and leaning over to listen to her heartbeat.

“Who said Clint had first shot at her?” someone yelled from the crowd. There were several barks of laughter. “I’m next!”

 _How can they joke around?_ Thomas thought. _She’s clearly half-dead._ He felt sick inside. Too many conflicting thoughts, emotions, memories.

Alby’s eyes narrowed; his mouth pulled into a tight grin that didn’t look like it had anything to do with humor. “If anybody touches this girl,” Alby said, “you’re gonna spend the night sleepin’ with the Grievers in the Maze. Banished, no questions.” He paused, turning in a slow circle as if he wanted every person to see his face. “Ain’t nobody better touch her! Nobody!”

It was still one of the favorite things Thomas had ever heard Alby say.

Clint stood up from his examination. “She seems fine. Breathing okay, normal heartbeat. Though it’s a bit slow. Your guess is as good as mine, but I’d say she’s in a coma. Jeff, let’s take her to the Homestead.”

Jeff stepped over to grab Teresa by the arms while Clint took hold of her feet. Thomas wished he could do more than watch- even given everything that had happened, he hated seeing her like this. It reminded him too much of watching her fall to her death.

“On the count of three,” Jess was saying, his tall frame looking ridiculous bent in half, like a praying mantis. “One…two…three!”

They lifted her with a quick jerk, almost throwing her up in the air—she was obviously a lot lighter than they’d thought—and Thomas almost shouted at them to be more careful.

“Guess we’ll have to see what she does,” Jeff said to no one in particular. “We can feed her soupy stuff if she doesn’t wake up soon.”

“Just watch her _closely_ ,” Newt said. “Must be something special about her or they wouldn’t have sent her here.”

Thomas had to fight not to make a face at Newt’s emphasis on ‘closely’. Could the shank be any more obvious about it?

Alby leaned over to look in her face once more before they carried her off. “Put her next to Ben’s room and keep a watch on her day and night. Nothin’ better happen without me knowing about it. I don’t care if she talks in her sleep or takes a klunk—you come tell me.”

“Yeah,” Jeff muttered; then he and Clint shuffled off to the Homestead, Teresa’s body bouncing as they went, and the other Gladers finally started to talk about it, scattering as theories bubbled through the air.

Thomas watched all this in mute contemplation- trying like hell to get the image of Teresa falling amidst fire and rubble out from behind his eyes.

Newt walked over and grabbed him by the shoulder. “Careful there Greenie, you like you’re at a funeral.”

Thomas blew out a short breath, pursing his lips and meeting Newt’s eyes as he did so. “Well I suppose that’s better then looking like I’m about to call down an executioner.”

Newt eyes shuttered like the doors of the Maze closing at night, and he didn’t say a word, though he didn’t need to. Thomas got the message loud and clear- he didn’t need to be thrown into a wall this time to be told. Despite everything, he wasn’t allowed to care for Teresa. Even though she’s the only reason that Thomas will never have to see Newt die again, the reason that Thomas lived long enough to get struck by lightning in the first place. Good that, asshole.

Alby came up, muttering to himself, thinking aloud. “Something’s whacked. Call a Gathering.”

He said it quietly enough that Thomas didn’t think anyone else heard, but it sounded ominous. Then the leader and Newt walked off, without even a backwards glance, and Thomas was relieved to see Chuck coming his way again.

“Chuck, what’s a Gathering?” He asked, still playing the role of an ignorant Greenie who wasn’t supposed to feel like screaming because the second-in-command was being a slintheads.

Chuckie looked proud to know the answer. “It’s when the Keepers meet—they only call one when something weird or terrible happens.”

“Well, I guess today fits both of those categories pretty well.” Thomas’s stomach rumbled, interrupting his thoughts. “I didn’t finish my breakfast—can we get something somewhere? I’m starving.”

Chuck looked up at him, his eyebrows raised. “Seeing that chick wig out made you hungry? You must be more psycho that I thought.”

Thomas sighed, he didn’t have the patience for this. “Just get me some food.”

 

The kitchen was small but had everything one needed to make a hearty meal. A big oven, a microwave, a dishwasher, a couple of tables. It seemed old and run-down, but clean. Seeing the appliances and the familiar layout made Thomas feel as if memories—real, solid memories—were right on the edge of his mind. Nothing like living twice and still knowing next to nothing about his past. But once again, the essential parts were missing—names, faces, places, events. It was maddening.

“Take a seat,” Chuck said. “I’ll get you something—but I swear this is the last time. Just be glad Frypan isn’t around—he hates is when we raid his fridge.”

Thomas was relieved they were alone, the fewer people around the less he had to pretend. As Chuck fumbled about with dishes and things from the fridge, Thomas pulled out a wooden chair from a small plastic table and sat down. If he was being honest he didn’t really know where to go from here. He didn’t need answers to all the questions he’d asked the first time anymore, and he wasn’t trying to draw too much attention to himself yet. Of course he knew that WCKD was watching anyway, but the more they thought him unremarkable and that things were just going on as normal, the better chance they had at getting everyone out alive.

So this time around he decided to enjoy his meal with Chuck, listening to more of the kid’s crazy stories and fantasies. It was an amusing way to spend an hour, and after everything he’d been through Thomas knew it was a memory he would always cherish, balm to his heart after failing Chuck so miserably before.

After they’d finished eating the two parted ways, Chuck to his duties, and Thomas to refamiliarize himself with the Glade. He headed out for the northeast corner, toward the big rows of tall green cornstalks that looked ready to harvest. There was other stuff, too; tomatoes, lettuce, peas, a lot more that Thomas didn’t recognize.

He took a deep breath, loving the fresh whiff of dirt and growing plants. The smell brought back so many memories- gardening practice with Newt, and the smells of the Safe Haven. As he got closer, he saw that several boys were weeding and picking in the small fields. One waved at him with a smile. An actual smile.

This time would be different, Thomas would make sure of it. Last time he’d known nothing about the kid who just smiled at him other than the fact that he’d died with a Griever on top of him and terror on his once smiling face. Thomas took another deep breath of the pleasant air and pulled himself from his thoughts—there was a lot more he wanted to see.

Next was the southeast corner, where shabbily built wooden fences held in several cows, goats, sheep, and pigs. No horses, though. Which still sucked, Thomas thought. He’d never been able to get the image out of his head of the Gladers, mounted, racing as hard as they could and riding free from the Maze, the Scorch, everything. As he approached, Thomas was once again struck with the idea that he had to have had something to do with animals in his old life. Well, his old _old_ life.

The smell wasn’t quite as nice as the crops, but still, he imagined it could’ve been a lot worse. As he explored the area, he realized more and more how well the Gladers kept up the place, how clean it was. He was impressed by how organized they must be, how hard they all must work. He could only imagine how truly horrific a place like this could be if everyone went lazy and stupid.

Finally, he made it to the southwest quarter, near the forest.

He was approaching the sparse, skeletal trees in front of the denser woods when he was startled by a blur of movement at his feet, followed by a hurried set of clacking sounds. He looked down just in time to see the sun flash off of something metallic—a toy rat—scurrying past him and toward the small forest. The thing was already ten feet away by the time he realized it wasn’t a rat at all—it was more like a lizard, with at least six legs scuttling the long silver torso along.

A beetle blade. _Let the spying begin_ , Thomas thought. _Bring it on._

He caught a gleam of red light sweeping the ground in front of the creature as if it came from its eyes. Logic told him it had to be his mind playing tricks on him, but he could have sworn the little metallic inspect was judging him, calculating, determined to figure out what Thomas was up to. The urge to chase the little gadget down was just as strong as it was the first time he’d felt it, and Thomas had to wonder if it was really that the urges were still the same despite Thomas’s knowledge, or if it was more of a muscle memory type thing.

Theoretically, Thomas should be trying to keep everything as similar to the past timeline as possible just so that he could continue to accurately guide them, but some things just seemed unnecessary. Like the endless questions and expending energy when he didn’t quite need to yet. So Instead he slowly continued to wander, just a curious little Greenie figuring out his new world.

He couldn’t believe how quickly the light disappeared. From the Glade proper, the forest didn’t look that big, maybe a couple of acres. Yet the trees were tall with sturdy trunks, packed tightly together, the canopy up above thick with leaves. The air around him had a greenish, muted hue, as if only several minutes of twilight remained in the day.

It was somehow beautiful and creepy, all at once.

Thomas stepped around a large oak and pulled up short, realizing where he’d somehow still managed to find himself at, despite the different circumstances. An icy shiver ran down his back. He’d reached the graveyard.

His heart was heavy, so heavy, as he approached the graves. So much loss, they’d all suffered so much loss. How much would they have to endure this time around? As much as Thomas wished he could save everyone, he knew that there would be some who would fall. The question of ‘who’ was what haunted his every thought, what had him overthinking every step. Was it selfish to value more lives more than others? Every person was just as important, had the potential to become just as close to him as the others had if the circumstances had been even slightly different.

Shaking his head, trying to break himself from this stubborn melancholy that wouldn’t release him when a twig broke, straight in front of him, right behind the trees on the other side of the graveyard.

Then another snap. Then another. Coming closer. And the darkness was thick.

“Who’s out there?” Thomas called, his voice shaky and hollow—it sounded as if he were speaking inside and insulated tunnel. This couldn’t be happening, it couldn’t be. They’d locked Ben in the Homestead, they’d warned the Keepers, there was no way that this could possibly be happening for the second time. But then how had Thomas found himself here, in this exact place, at this exact time, without trying to be? Was history doomed to repeat itself? “Seriously, this is stupid.” He hated to admit to himself just how terrified he was.

Instead of answering, the person gave up all pretense of stealth and started running, crashing through the forest line around the clearing of the graveyard, circling toward the spot where Thomas stood. He froze, panic over taking him. This couldn’t be happening, they _had_ to be able to change things. He’d cured Newt, right? Or if things were destined to repeat themselves apparently, was there some reason that the cure wouldn’t work for some reason? Were they just all doomed no matter what? Now only a few feet away, the visitor grew louder and louder until Thomas caught a glimpse of a skinny boy limping along in a strange, lilting run.

“Who the he—”

“What the bloody buggering Hell are you doing out here, Tommy?” Newt demanded, finally coming into view, out of breath and pale.

All of Thomas’s breath seemed to leave him in a single gust, and he collapsed to his knees in a sob. “I-I thought…”

“Trust you to literally go _literally_ go looking for trouble! D’you have any idea what type of heart attack I had when I realized you were off wandering about on your own _again?_ ”

Thomas shook his head, cradling it in his hands as he tried to calm his breath and failing, “The way you… It was just like… God- I was so fucking- I thought…”

He heard Newt moving around but couldn’t pull himself together enough to take a look at what he was doing.

“What’s the matter with you? You weren’t this terrified when you were _actually_ attacked, so what’s got your knickers in a twist? What now the girl’s shown up again you’ve gone soft or—"

“I THOUGHT THAT NOTHING COULD BE CHANGED, YOU PRICK!” Thomas burst out, surging to his feet with his first clenched in a burst of energy that he didn’t know he had. Newt stopped short and the anger on his face wiped clean. “I thought that despite _everything_ we’d done, I still wound up here and Ben would still… And that that meant no matter what we did, nothing could change! That we were stuck in a loop and nothing would fucking change…”

His energy left him with his anger as the fear returned, and he made to collapse again, but strong, wiry arms held him up and held him tight. Thomas felt Newt sigh against him.

“I’m sorry, mate.” Newt whispered. “I didn’t think about it like that, I just… You make me nervous when I can’t see what you’re up to, alright? Worried you’ll get into some bit of trouble we didn’t see comin’, yeah?”

Thomas snorted and made to ease the shaking in his hands, leaning into Newt’s touch a bit more than he needed to but sue him, okay? Life was shit, might as well enjoy the small wonderful things where you could. “You’re preaching to the choir there and you know it. I don’t know if I would be able to handle it again, Newt.”

Thomas was glad that Newt didn’t have to ask what ‘it’ was.

“We’re in this together, Tommy, no doubting that. Let’s just take this one step at a time, and you _not_ go wandering off on your own anymore. Tomorrow will be interesting enough to see how it all plays out without you running around adding more variables into the mix.”

Thomas straightened up and pulled Newt close, squeezing him tightly before letting go and clapping him on the shoulder. “One of these days you’re going to miss my ability to attract problems. You’ll get bored.”

“Tommy?”

“Yes, Newt?”

“Slim it. The day I’m bored around you is the day the bloody world ends. _Again._ ”

Thomas chuckled, feeling better already, as the duo made their way back towards the Homestead.


	8. Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas redefines loss.

Chuck had to drag Thomas out of his sleeping bag in the morning, drag him to the showers, and drag him to the dressing rooms. The whole time, Thomas felt stressed and distracted, his head aching, his body wanting more sleep. Breakfast was a blur, and an hour after it was over, Thomas couldn’t remember what he’d eaten. He was so tired, his brain felt like someone had gone in and stapled it to his skull in a dozen places. Heartburn ravaged his chest.

But from what he could tell, naps were very much frowned upon in the giant working farm of the Glade.

He stood with Newt in front of the Blood House, getting ready for his first training session with a Keeper. Despite the rough morning and the fact that he had done this before already, Thomas was eager for the chance to do something with his hands and get his brain to calm down a bit. The reason he was so tired was because he’d sat in his sleeping bag half the night, plotting and planning and running over contingency plan after contingency plan. Remember what went wrong the last, time, why it went wrong, and how to prevent it. Thomas had sat there for hours, figuring out what actions were connected to each other, which decisions needed to be left the same, everything. Mistakes weren’t something that could be afforded, he knew that now.

Newt didn’t look much better than he did, though it was a small comfort. Sometimes the fact that they still had to go through the motions so as not to arose suspicion from certain parties was… annoying, at best. There were so many things that needed to be done, conversations that needed to happen, details that had to be ironed out. The plan was to get out of the Maze _before_ Teresa triggered the Ending, which meant they only had a few days- and they weren’t ready.

Cows mooed, sheep bleated, pigs squealed all around him. Somewhere close by, a dog barked, making Thomas hope Frypan didn’t being new meaning to the word _hot dog_.

“Tommy, are you even listening to me?”

Thomas snapped out of his daze and focused on Newt, who’d been talking for who knew how long. Thomas hadn’t heard a word of it. “Yeah, sorry. Couldn’t sleep last night.”

Newt attempted a pathetic smile. “Can’t blame ya there. Been havin’ a hard time getting’ to sleep myself, given everything that’s goin’ on. Probably think I’m a slintheads shank for getting’ you ready to work your butt off today given’ everything.”

Thomas shrugged. “Work’s probably the best thing I could so. Anything to keep my heads busy.”

Newt nodded, and his smile became more genuine. “You’re as smart as you look, Tommy. That’s one of the reasons we run this place all nice and busylike. You get lazy, you get sad. Start givin’ up. Plain and simple.”

Thomas nodded, absently kicking a loose rock across the dusty, cracked stone floor of the Glade. “So what’s the latest on that girl from yesterday?” He knew that asking was likely to miff his companion, but he still needed to know. So much of their plan relied on timing everything _perfectly_ with her, and while they knew that the moment Thomas started to seriously hear her voice in his head it was ‘go time’, it would still be best to make sure.

“Still in a coma, sleepin’. Med-jacks are spoon feeding her whatever soups Frypan can cook up, checking her vitals and such. She seems okay, just dead to the world for now.”

“That’s just plain weird.” So many conversations, so many actions, all repeated for the purpose of putting on a good enough show. The ridiculousness of their situation never failed to baffle him, the never-ending case of Deja-vu unbearable. Sometimes Thomas just felt the need to break the monotony with something new. “So why do we have all of the animals, but no horses? Horses would be _useful._ ”

“Horses.”

“Yes, horses.”

“What on earth would we do with horses in the Glade?”

Thomas sighed, Newt clearly didn’t understand his vision. One day he would, though. “Never mind, buddy. So what’s first? Milk cows or slaughter some poor little pigs?”

Newt laughed, a sounds Thomas realized he hadn’t heard since he’d arrived. “We always make Newbies start with the bloody Slicers. Don’t worry, cuttin’ up Frypan’s victuals ain’t but a part. Slicers do anything and everything dealin’ with the beasties.”

“Too bad I can’t remember my whole life. Maybe I love killing animals.” God, Thomas hated killing animals. Was this part of the day over with? He was suddenly starting to regret thinking that keeping his hands busy could possibly be a good thing when today was his day with Winston.

Newt nodded toward the barn. “Oh, you’ll know good and well by the time the sun sets tonight. Let’s go meet Winston—he’s the Keeper.”

 

Winston was an acne-covered kid, short but muscular, with olive skin and deep brown hair, and it seemed to Thomas that he liked his job way too much. Winston showed Thomas around for the first hour, pointing out which pens held which animals, where the chicken and turkey coops were, what went where in the barn. The dog, a pesky black Lab named Bark, took quickly to Thomas, hanging at his feet the entire tour. What ever happened to the dog in his timeline? Thomas wasn’t sure if he made it out okay or not, but this time maybe something could be worked out. Possibly. Fuck it maybe they could even save the cows, you never know.

The second hour was spent actually working with the farm animals—feeding, cleaning, fixing a fence, scraping up klunk.

The third hour was the hardest for Thomas. He had to watch as Winston slaughtered a hog and began preparing its many parts for future eating. Thomas swore two things to himself as he walked away for lunch break. First, he was still never eating anything that came from a pig; second, he didn’t care how many times he would go back in time, Thomas was never reliving his day with the Slicers again. Never.

Winston had said for him to go alone, that he’d hang around the Blood House, which was fine with Thomas. As he walked toward the East Door, he couldn’t help but notice that a few of the Gladers were eyeing him curiously, almost nervously, and when they caught his eye they paused, before giving him a small, determined nod. Thomas smirked, and nodded in return- it was good to know that the Keepers were carrying out that phase of the plan- before continuing towards the East Door where, sure enough. There was Minho, right on time.

The Runner stopped three steps in, then bent over and put his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. He looked like he’d just run twenty miles, face red, skin covered in sweat, clothes soaked.

Thomas stared, everything that happened right on schedule was one less thing for Thomas to worry about. And then, just as before, Minho collapsed to the ground.

Tomas didn’t move for a few seconds. Minho lay in a crumpled heap, barely moving, but Thomas, obviously knew he was fine. Nevertheless he sprang into action, kept things going smoothly.

“Alby!” he shouted. “Newt! Somebody get them!”

Thomas sprinted to the older boy and knelt down beside him. “Hey—you okay?”” The Runner’s head rested on outstretched arms as he panted, his chest heaving. He was conscious, but Thomas had never seen someone so exhausted.

“I’m…fine,” he said between breaths, then looked up. “I think I believe you now.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow, pointedly, because they were out in the open and soon to be surrounded. Now wasn’t the time. As Minho pushed himself into a seated position, his black hair matted to his skull with sweat, Alby jogged up, clearly upset.

“What’re you doin’ back, Minho? What happened?”

“Calm your wad, Alby,” the Runner replied, seeming to gain strength by the second. “Make yourself useful and get me some water—I dropped my pack out the somewhere.”

But Alby didn’t move. He kicked Minho in the leg—too hard to be playful. “What _happened_?”

“I can barely talk, shuck-face!” Minho yelled, his voice raw. “Get me some water!”

Alby looked over at Thomas, who was amused to see the slightest hint of a smile flash across his face before it vanished into a scowl. “Minho’s the only shank who can talk to me like that without getting his butt kicked off the Cliff.”

Thomas smiled back at him, and shook his head as Alby ran off, presumably to get Minho some water.

Thomas turned towards Minho, who was giving him a calculated stare, but said nothing. “You never did miss much, did you?” Thomas asked, more to himself than anyone else.

“That’s kind of creepy, you know,” Minho replied, still panting, but getting his breathing more under control with very moment that passed. “That all-knowing smirk you use.”

“It’s just nice to see him, that’s all.” Thomas could sense the Minho was determined to have this conversation, so he just hoped the other boy would keep it vague. There had already been too much talking going around the Glade and the more there was the less of a chance that their luck would hold.

Minho grunted, eyeing Thomas up and down. “Don’t hurt him.”

“Who, Alby?” Thomas asked, eyes screwed up in confusion. Of all the ways this conversation could have gone, that wasn’t one he was expecting.

“No, you slinthead. Newt. Don’t hurt him.”

Thomas’s jaw dropped, because what the hell? “You do realize that I have gone through more hells than you can possibly imagine trying to prevent _anything_ from hurting him, right? And that I’m currently about to go through more?” Thomas whispered, running his hand across his face to muffle the words for all but him and Minho.

“That’s not what I’m—”

“Look, I understand, and I know that I’m not the only one with a vested interest in keeping him sane and alive, alright? Especially after what you did for him after the, uh, _incident_.”

Now it was Minho’s turn to have his jaw drop in utter shock, which was never a sight Thomas got tired of seeing, really. “You know about that?” He whispered, eyes wide.

Thomas nodded.

“Well, alright then. That settles that I guess.”

“What do you mean, what settles what?”

But Minho didn’t have time to answer, even if he was going to, which Thomas strongly suspected wasn’t the case, because Alby chose then to show up with Newt hot on his heels. It seems his friend wasn’t keen to miss out on this conversation the second time around. Alby walked up with a huge plastic cup full of water for Minho, who gulped it down the whole thing without even stopping for breath.

“Okay,” Alby said, “out with it. What happened?”

Minho raised his eyebrows and nodded toward Thomas, which really gave all the information any of them needed, but the vocal bit still had to happen anyway.

Thomas sat as Minho struggled to stand up, wincing with every move, his whole demeanor just _screaming_ exhaustion. The Runner balanced himself against the wall, gave all three of them a cold look. “I found a dead one.”

“A dead what?” Newt asked, needing to hear it for himself.

Minho smiled, shaking his head almost in disbelief. “A dead Griever.”

Alby looked like someone had just told him he could grow wings and fly. “Ain’t a good time for jokes,” he said.

“Look,” Minho answered, “I wouldn’t believe me if I were you, either. But trust me, I did. Big fat nasty one.”

“You found a _dead_ Griever,” Alby repeated.

“ _Yes_ , Alby,” Minho said, his words laced with annoyance. “A couple miles from here, out near the Cliff.”

Alby looked out at the Maze, then to Thomas, then to Newt, and then back at Minho. “Well… why didn’t you bring it back with you?”

Minho laughed again, a half-grunt half-giggle. “You been drinkin’ Gally’s saucy-sauce? Those things must weigh half a ton, dude. Plus, I wouldn’t touch one if you gave me a free trip out of this place.”

Alby persisted with the questions. “What did it look like? Were the metal spikes in or out of its body? Did it move at all—was its skin still moist?”

“Slim it, man,” Minho said. “You gotta see it for yourself. It’s…weird.”

“Weird?” Alby looked confused.

“Dude, I’m exhausted, starving, and sun-sick. But if you wanna haul it right now, we could probably make it there and back before the walls shut.”

Alby looked at his watch. “Better wait till the wake-up tomorrow.”

“I don’t think you should go out there at all, actually.” Newt piped up, right on cue.

Minho, Alby, and Thomas all looked at Newt, pretending to think he was crazy.

“You’re joking, right? You don’t think this needs to be investigated?” Minho asked, his voice raising an octave in disbelief.

“No, that’s not what I said, is it?” Newt sassed back. “I just don’t think our fearless leader over here should be the one traipsing through the Maze, especially not when we’ve _just_ had a change in leadership.”

Alby put his hands on his hips and asked sarcastically, “And who would you have go in my place, huh? The shucking Greenie?”

“Yes, actually.” Newt responded his eyes burning into Thomas’s, not even bothering to glance Alby’s way. Newt hated this part of the plan. Despised it, even. As far as he was concerned there was zero reason for _any_ of them to go into the Maze, when they already knew everything about it, but he’d been outvoted. They _had_ to keep up appearances, and they had to have _some_ believable reason for how they found the exit when it came the time. They didn’t need to have everyone under the sun knowing that time travel was an actual _literal_ thing going on.

Thomas nodded, both to play his part and reassure Newt that it would all be okay. “I have no problem with that. Beats being in the Blood House any day.”

“Slim it, Greenie. You have no idea what you’re talking out.” Minho said, slightly wincing as he said it. Glad to see that Thomas wasn’t the only one who was eager for the whole double-speech thing to be over with already.

“Are you out of your mind?” Alby demanded. “You want to send a Greenie who’s not been here but three days into that shucking Maze to look at a creature that he’ll probably klunk his pants at seeing, let alone be able to help Minho give a full report of.”

“Yeah, why not?” Thomas asked. “I haven’t been around long enough to actually be missed if something happens.”

Thomas tried _very_ hard to ignore the sharp exhalation of breath that came from Newt’s direction. They needed to wrap this whole decision up quick or else one of them was going to lose it and speak their mind.

“Why not, he says!” Alby threw his hands up in the air, giving up. “Fine! Fine. You wanna feed the Newbie to the monsters, be my guest. Minho, get him spun up. Newt, with me, we gotta update the Keepers.”

And with that, Alby stormed off, though Newt lingered, clearly wanting to say something else. But he couldn’t, not with so many eyes on them, and there was clearly a red blinking light on the wall not 6 feet from them- it had appeared just after Alby returned with Minho’s water. So Thomas just watched as Newt gritted his teeth, turned, and limped away after Alby.

Minho was looking back and forth between the two of them, a wicked delight playing in his eyes. “Right, yeah, okay, I shouldn’t have even bothered.”

“Bothered with _what_?” Thomas asked. Minho never made this little sense, what the hell was he talking about?

“Nothing Greenie, you’ll understand when you’re older.” Minho righted himself from leaning on the wall, hit Thomas on the arm, then started walking toward the Homestead with a slight limp. He spoke over his shoulder as he shuffled away—it looked like his whole body was in pain. “I should go back out there but screw it. I’m gonna go eat some of Frypan’s nasty casserole- you’re with the Slicers, today right?”

Thomas nodded, vaguely remembering that he’d yet to eat something for lunch.

“Good that, go run and tell Winston that I’m stealing you for the rest of the day, grab some food if you haven’t yet, and meet me back here in an hour. We gotta get you ready for tomorrow.”

Thomas took a deep breath before going about as Minho bade him, but he couldn’t help but think that spending his afternoon picking out running gear was much better than spending it witnessing a banishing. But, as far as Thomas knew, Ben was still in Clint’s capable hands and recovering well. Gally said he would explain things to him before they let him out, as Gally is the only other one here who had gone through a Changing. Well, if you didn’t count Thomas, and he didn’t think they were.

So far, so good.

 

In a crooked cranny near a back corner of the Homestead, Minho pulled out a key and opened up a shabby door leading to a small storage closet. Thomas felt a shiver of anticipation, knowing what was inside. He caught glimpses of ropes and chains and other odds and ends as Minho’s flashlight crisscrossed the closet. Eventually, it fell on an open box full of running shoes. Thomas almost laughed, it seemed so ordinary.

“That right there’s the number one supply we get,” Minho announced. “At least for us. They send new ones in the Box every so often. If we had bad shoes, we’d have feet that look like freaking Mars.” He bent over and rummaged through the pile. “What size you wear?”

“Size?” Thomas thought for a second. “I… don’t know.” It was so odd sometimes what he could and couldn’t remember, even now. Shoe size hadn’t really mattered after leaving the Maze. He reached down and pulled off a shoe he’d worn since coming to the Glade and took a look inside. “Eleven.”

“Geez, shank, you got big feet.” Minho stood up holding a pair of sleek silver ones. “But it looks like I’ve got some—man, we could go canoeing in these things.

“Those are fancy.” Thomas took them and stared in wonder- the last time he’d seen these shoes they’d been covered in muck and blood and so torn apart. He’d left them behind in his hut in favor of walking on the beach barefoot through the storm. If Thomas strained, he could remember seashells biting into the flesh of his feet, and how at the time he was glad for it. Thomas felt Minho watching him, so he cleared his throat and sat on the ground to put them on. Minho grabbed a few more items before coming over to join him.

“I guess I don’t really need to explain any of this to you, huh?” Minho asked softly, passing a plastic wristwatch onto Thomas’s lap a little forlornly. Thomas couldn’t help but smile down at it. In the beginning this watch had symbolized Thomas finally doing what he wanted to do, something that had a purpose. As time went on, it was how he timed missions, missions where he had lost his friends.

This watch hadn’t made it through the Last City, through his battle with Newt. The screen got cracked in the struggle, stopping time at the exact moment the life had left his best friend. Emotion clogged his throat as Thomas traced its face, vowing that it wouldn’t meet the same fate.

“I don’t wanna know what happened to that thing, do I? To make you go all teary-eyed over it?” Minho asked, but his voice was gentle, no hint of teasing.

“It died with Newt,” Thomas responded in kind, blinking away tears and strapping it to his wrist. Thomas gave Minho a broken smile, “’Put it on and never take it off, your life might depend on it.’ Right?” He quoted back what the Keeper had said to Thomas a year ago.

Minho grinned, nodding. Then he tossed Thomas his running clothes, complete with the ever important runnie-undies.

“Hey, Thomas? Can I ask you something?”

Thomas nodded, holding his breath because with Minho, the possibilities were endless.

“Was there anything more I could have done?”

The question was so faint Thomas could barely hear it, and once his brain caught up it was like his heart was stomped out of his chest. Because he and Minho have had this talk before, but not like this. It was after, at the Safe Haven, when Minho had broken over the loss of Newt and raged, raged for all the world to see before crumbling into dust and reforming himself in his grief. Thomas breathed out heavily, wringing his hands that he didn’t know what to do with any more.

“No, Minho. There wasn’t. You ran as fast as you could have—”

“Yes! Exactly! I’m the Keeper of the shucking Runners and you’re telling me that _I couldn’t run fast enough to save him_?!”

“Minho, listen to me.” Thomas begged him, putting his hands on his shoulders. “You’d been tortured and starved by WCKD for six months, okay? Six months. You were drugged, exhausted, injured, and—”

“It shouldn’t have mattered! How could I have failed him like that I just don’t… Ugh! Look. If there’s anything, ever, you see me doing that I should be, could be, doing better, you’ll tell me, right? You’ll help me save them this time?” Minho demanded, the look in his eyes almost manic, and Thomas had a horrible, broken thought.

If Newt was right and Thomas had died when the lightning hit, did he leave Minho behind? Did he destroy Minho, and Frypan, and even Gally all over again? Had he truly been that selfish, going out in that storm not caring about any potential consequences, and possibly left his friends with yet another body to be buried? Or were they not in yet another timeline, but had truly gone _back_ , so from the moment that lightning hit his skin, the future that Thomas came form no longer existed? Tears formed, and he had to strain to focus on Minho’s request.

“Yeah, buddy, I promise. It won’t come to that, but I promise.”

Minho’s face shifted to concern, and God Thomas didn’t deserve his friends. “Hey… shit, man. I’m sorry, I know you came from a place that was pretty horrible, I didn’t mean to bring it up again, not like that. Are you okay?”

“I’m the one who should be apologizing, Minho. I just left you guys there! We had just buried everyone we loved and god we were all _so damn broken,_ but we still had each other, and I just went off in a fucking storm and what if Newt’s right? What if he is right and I died, and I left you all with my body and more loss and fuck, I’m _so sorry!”_

Minho suddenly had an armful of sobbing Thomas. And Thomas knew that this Minho wasn’t his, that he would _never see his brother again_ and wow that was a different type of loss he hadn’t even considered, because now Thomas had to mourn everyone who had _lived_ as well-, but this was the closest thing he had, so he would take it. Strong arms held him close, and he guessed this Minho didn’t mind some shank he didn’t really know bawling all over him, which was nice.

“Hey, now you listen to me, okay Greenie?” Minho spoke, tears in his voice as well. “Now, I don’t know much about your timeline. All I know is what you and Newt have said, and what I can see on your faces about what you haven’t. I know who lived, and who died, and how we all ended up. And I know myself. And I can’t speak for your Gally or Frypan or whomever you left back in that Hell, okay, but I feel pretty okay about speaking for me, so you listen good.”

Minho pushed Thomas back enough, so they could look into each other’s crying eyes. “I forgive you, for him. If you did leave him, yeah, he will be shattered at this point, but I swear to god Thomas if he knew that burying you meant that somewhere, _anywhere_ , there is a version of events where more people could be saved, he would kill you himself to send you there. D’you understand me? He will cry, and mourn, do whatever he needs to do, but you being here? Saving the others, saving _Newt?_ Your Minho would forgive you in a heartbeat, and _I forgive you for him.”_

It was too much to hear, and Thomas wished Newt were there as well. To share in this healing pain, to anchor Thomas, and to mourn. To mourn the future that was, and the friends they had left behind. Those quiet moments with Minho in the supply room went on for a while, and in that time,  Thomas felt a small crack inside himself begin to heal.

Eventually they got control over themselves, and Minho finished supplying him with weapons and gear and extra supplies for the next day and beyond, but Minho and Thomas got closer, their relationship shifted.

And Thomas thought that while he may have lost one brother, he was in the process of gaining another. And though he would mourn his old friends for the rest of his life, Minho was right. Saving the others was worth it, and they would have understood.


	9. Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas takes Alby's place.

“Minho, don’t let him out of your sight. The moment he goes off on his own he manages to get himself into far more trouble than you could possibly believe,” Newt ranted.  

He paced back and forth in front of Thomas and Minho, eyes shut and fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He’d come to them both just after wake up and insisted upon walking them to the Doors and seeing them off.

“Do not listen to any of his ideas, or crazy plans, do not deviate from the already agreed upon course- unless something ridiculous happens and you have absolutely no other choice, as a last resort his plans can _normally_ be less harm than good. And under no circum—”

“Newt, seriously. Slim it.” Thomas said, at this point starting to get a bit irritated at the utter lack of faith being shown here. Yes, Thomas had made some mistakes in the past, been too hasty, but he’d done his best to keep as many people alive as possible. Thomas glanced to Minho for support, but the Keeper shook his head emphatically, staying out of it.

“ _Don’t._ ” Newt warned, pointing his fingers at Thomas, his voice raw and gravelly. His eyes were red-rimmed and surrounded by purple bruises that indicated he hadn’t slept at all.

Newt wasn’t being a jackass, he was afraid.

Guilt rushed through his veins, and Thomas closed his eyes for strength. He couldn’t imagine what this was doing to Newt, but things would be different this time. Alby was now safe, and Thomas knew what to do once the Griever woke up. It’d be fine. When he looked at Newt again he saw that he was still pointing, and that his hand was starting to shake. A quick surveillance glance around the area showed they were as alone as they could be, save for Minho, so Thomas took a step forward and grabbed the hand Newt pointed with into his own and lowered it, holding it tightly.

Thomas kept moving forward until his forehead rested against Newt’s, their eyes closed, and they both released a shaky breath, though the sniffing coming from Newt said that his companion was far from calm.

“You come back, you understand?” Newt whispered.  “You don’t stay out there all night again. You don’t cut it close, you don’t get fancy, you’re back by lunch, safe inside these walls.”

Thomas’s heart clenched, and he squeezed Newt’s hand in response. “I’m coming back, Newt. Nothing fancy, no cutting it close, back by lunch,” he repeated dutifully.

Out in the Scorch and beyond, Newt had been his rock, the one he counted on. Having him here, like this, demanding the same from Thomas was something new, but something good. It warmed Thomas from his fingertips to his toes, and at the same time reminded him that he needed to be careful. This wasn’t like the last time, when he didn’t feel like he’d had anyone who cared if he didn’t make it- his life was his. But it’s not like that anymore. He couldn’t leave Newt on his own.

Newt pushed slightly more against his head, demanding. “You promise me, Tommy.”

“I promise.”

Then Newt wrenched himself away from Thomas, who felt it like the loss of a limb, and stood straight- all signs of the prior weakness hidden from sight. “Then get the hell out of here before I change my mind,” he said, before turning his back on them and marching away.

Thomas took a moment to watch him, flexing his fingers at the loss of his hand, before turning to face Minho- who was grinning like an idiot.

“Slim it, Minho,” Thomas warned, not wanting to go into it.

Minho pushed back from where he was, again, leaning against the wall. “No, no, I get it. You two shanks have been through a lot together.”

“Yes,” Thomas agreed. “We have.”

Thomas thought that would be the end of it, but as he and Minho entered the Maze, the Keeper just had to get in one last remark. “The two of you are very… intense about each other, you know that?”

The look Thomas sent him could have melted Minho’s face like acid, but Minho just laughed it off and started to jog away. “Whatever, Greenie. Like I said before, you’ll understand when you’re older!”

Thomas had to sprint to catch up but all he could think about was that he’d much rather understand _now_.

 

 

They went through the West Door into Section Eight and made their way down several corridors, Thomas right beside Minho as he turned right and left without seeming to think about it, running all the while. The early-morning light had a sharp sheen about it, making everything look bright and crisp—the ivy, the cracked walls, the stone blocks of the ground. Though the sun had a few hours before hitting the noon spot up above, there was plenty of light to see by. Thomas kept up with Minho as best he could, having to sprint every once in awhile to catch back up- this body wasn’t as accustomed to running as his mind was.

They finally made it to a rectangular cut in a long wall to the north that looked like a doorway without a door. Minho ran straight through it without stopping. “This leads from Section Eight—the middle left square—to Section One—the top left square. Like I said, this passage is always in the same spot, but the route here might be a little different because of the walls rearranging themselves.”

Thomas followed him, amazed at how much he remembered from the few short days he’d spent as a Runner before.

As they ran down a long corridor on the right, passing several turns to the left, Thomas reached back for his knife in preparation. He caught up to Minho so that he could watch what Thomas was doing. As they rounded the next bend, Thomas reached out for a coil of ivy and sliced it down without breaking his stride. Minho rolled his eyes and laughed. “Yeah, yeah, Greenie, I know.”

The feeling of laughter kept with them for the next hour or so as they made their way over to where Minho had found the dead Griever the day before. The Griever that wasn’t actually dead and would have instead jumped to life and attacked Alby if he had been out here instead of Thomas.

Briefly, Thomas wondered what would happen to someone if they went through the Changing twice.

Just as quickly, he decided that he never wanted to find out.

It was maybe 10 more minutes before they rounded a corner, and Thomas saw it. He stopped in his tracks, old fear coming up to clog his throat. Vivid memories of trying to protect Alby from it, fighting them in the Maze with Minho, rushing the line of Grievers when they finally made their break from the Maze. Thomas put his hands on his knees and bent over, trying to catch his breath.

The next couple of minutes would be critical—mainly because Thomas had absolutely _zero_ idea of how and when that thing would wake up and attack. That was the main reason Newt was so against this plan, the uncertainty. Since neither of them had been with Minho when it happened, and Minho wasn’t here to tell them, it was all a guessing game.

“You good, Greenie?” Minho asked, voice and body language keeping up the act of nonchalance, though his eyes gave him away. It was one thing to describe to Minho what needed to be done, and another to have them pull it off. Thomas thought back to his promise to Newt and forced himself to catch his breath.

“Yeah, just. Damn that thing is ugly,” Thomas joked, staring at it, eyes keen for any sign of movement.

Thomas stared in horror at the monstrous thing collapsed in the middle of the ground. It looked like an experiment gone terribly wrong—something from a nightmare. Part animal, part machine, the Griever was a heap of slimy skin and metal limbs. Its body resembled a gigantic slug, sparsely covered in hair and glistening white slime, grotesquely pulsating where the wind moved its body. It had no distinguishable head or tail, but front to end it was at least six feet long, four feet thick.

Sharp, metal spikes protruded from a few places on its flesh. But hair and spikes weren’t he only things protruding from the Griever’s body. Several randomly placed mechanical arms stuck out here and there, each one with a different purpose. A few had bright lights attached to them. Others had long, menacing needles. One had a three-fingered claw that clasped and unclasped for no apparent reason.

Thomas gulped, trying to ignore the smell that came with it as well. “No wonder you couldn’t just drag it back to the Glade. Do you see anything that could have killed it? A wound, anything?” Thomas asked, and he and Minho slowly started getting into position.

They were taking opposite sides, staying far apart so that it couldn’t just get the both of them at once and be done with it. Thomas’s heart was racing in his chest because they kept getting closer, but it still wasn’t moving. They couldn’t run before it woke up, they couldn’t reveal anything. Thomas saw at least 5 Beetle Blades in this one small clearing alone—Smile, Thomas. You’re famous.

How close would they have to get? Did they have to touch it?

Minho inched closer to it on his side, answering Thomas’s question and still pretending like everything was fine. “No, not yesterday at least. I wanted to wait for some extra hands or something- Grievers don’t just _die_ on their own, you know?”

Thomas was nodding, about to get within grabbing distance, when they heard it. A low, haunting sound. A constant whirring that had a metallic ring every few seconds, like sharp knives rubbing against each other. It grew louder by the second, and then a series of eerie clicks joined in. A hollow moan filled the air, and something that sounded like clanking chains—and then the Griever burst into life.

Without missing a beat Thomas ran and leapt At the wall as fast as he fucking could, grabbing on vines and climbing as though his life depended on it, which, it did. The sounds, the _smell_ , of it all brought Thomas straight back into the past. It was so difficult to keep them separate- despite it being daytime and Thomas wasn’t already half dead from carrying Alby into the vines. He had to struggle to remind himself that this was planned, they _wanted_ this to happen. Thomas could hear Minho struggling with the vines behind him and hoped like hell that he figured it out quickly because this wasn’t a trial run. They had exactly one chance to get this right or else he wouldn’t be keeping his promise to Newt and that just wasn’t acceptable.

The scent hit him clearer now, a sick mixture of overheated engines and charred flesh, turning his stomach and making more sweat break out across his skin.

Up, up, up he went, grunting and groaning and waiting, listening. Their plan wasn’t too sophisticated- how could it have been when they pulled it together in the few minutes they’d had during the meeting, while Newt was organizing about half a dozen other things with everyone else. First, they climb the walls once the Griever activates. And then they wait to see who it would climb up after, and whoever it _didn’t_ chase would slide down the wall and start running like hell towards the Cliff. Hopefully the beast would then follow the other person towards the Cliff, allowing the climber to drop down and chase after it. The first runner would do the dive and dodge just as Thomas and Minho had done it the first time around, and the runner who got their second would give the Griever an extra kick to make sure it went down.

It should have been simple, right?

Except the Griever had started to climb after Thomas, and it still wasn’t chasing Minho.

Thomas heard the Keeper drop off the walls, saw him start sprinting off below him, but the Griever wasn’t taking the bait. Up and up and up it went, coming after Thomas like that was its sole reason for existing.

The Griever’s spikes tore into the stone, throwing shredded ivy and rock chips in every direction. Its arms shifted about like the legs of the beetle blade, some with sharp picks that drove into the stone of the wall for support. A bright light on the end of one arm pointed directly at Thomas. Fuck. Alright, time for Plan B… which he was going to come up with just as soon as he got the fuck away from the goddamn thrice curse slinthead Griever.

Thomas reached out and grabbed a vine two feet to the left of where he hung. Wrapping it around his hand, he yanked on it with a sharp tug. It held true, just as the vines had a year ago. A quick glance below revealed that the Griever had already halved the distance between them, and it was moving faster yet, no more pauses or stops.

 _Just like old times,_ Thomas thought, before letting go of the vine he’d been hanging on to and heaving his body to the left, scraping along the wall. Before his pendulum swing took him back towards where he started, he reached out and grabbed another vine, catching a nice, thick one. This time he grabbed it with both hands and turned to plant the bottom of his feet on the wall. He shuffled his body to the left as far as the plant would let him, then let go and grabbed another on. Then another. Like some tree-climbing monkey, Thomas fell into it more quickly than he had before because he already trusted that his body would do it. Zero hesitation.

The sounds of his pursuer went on relentlessly, only now with the bone-shuddering addition of cracking and splitting rock joined in. Thomas swung to the left several more times before he dared to look back. The Griever was following, just as it had before. A knot was starting to loosen in his chest when he heard something that almost made his heart stop beating altogether.

_“THOMAS! THERE’S ANOTHER ONE!”_

It was Minho, and his voice was a lot shucking closer than it should have been if Minho had been running for the Cliff.

Not screwing around anymore, Thomas let his hand slip on the next vine, ignoring the burn, and allowing his body to fall closer to the ground as he kept swinging to the left. Several more times he did this before Thomas was close enough to drop to the ground completely- the Griever still stuck on the wall.

He didn’t have but a moment to relax before hands were grabbing him and dragging him- Minho, back again, and sprinting like a mad person. “ _Go go go go go!”_ Minho cried, out of breath but still pulling Thomas along while Thomas struggled to get his feet underneath him and go. While he flailed his head snapped to the right and he saw another Griever behind them, way too close for comfort.

Thomas ran.

“It… must.. have… called… for… help… when.. we… split!” Minho exclaimed, navigating the Maze without seeming to think about it, Thomas hot on his heels. “Shucking… thing… met… on… my… way… to… the… Cliff!”

Thomas didn’t know what to do. He no idea, no plan, didn’t know how to get back to the Cliff from here and that was the only thing that had worked the last time- but they were out of options, because they had just reached a dead end.

“What… no! How-wh- Thomas what day is today?!” Minho asked, breathing hard and starting to panic. Why were the walls different? Minho ran this Maze every day for 2 years, there was no way he’d gotten it wrong.

“Tuesday,” Thomas panted, remembering Newt’s odd little calendar he’d kept. Not that they knew if it was Tuesday out in the real world or not, but as far as the Glade was concerned, it was Tuesday.

“God fucking _damn it!_ ” Minho screamed, punching a wall and starting to cry. “I… I fucked up. I took a wrong turn- this wall is closed today… what do we do?!”

A small, sordid part of his mind supposed that this was where Newt’s remark from earlier would qualify- Thomas can only deviate if everything else goes wrong. But he couldn’t think of anything. The Grievers were coming at them now and Thomas’s mind was blank. There were no turns to take, no vines to climb, this was it. All his crazy plans had ever done was get his friends killed, how could he come up with anything now? As Thomas’s mind continued to be useless, he glanced at Minho who had a horrible shine to his eyes.

“It’s gotta be me,” Minho whispered, dread and certainty in his voice. “You’re too important.”

At first Thomas didn’t understand what was being said, but then he recognized the shine in Minho’s eyes. It was that same shine that was there when Alby had rushed the line of Grievers to buy them all time- Minho was going to sacrifice himself so that Thomas could get out.

Before Thomas had a chance to react, Minho sprinted full tilt at the oncoming Grievers, not stopping, not giving himself any room to doubt.

“No!” Thomas screamed, following hot on Minho’s heels. Before Minho could leap onto the monster’s blades as he had clearly been planning to do, Thomas slid into his legs, tackling him to the ground. Thomas and Minho slid under the Griever who kept crawling forward, too slow to see what had happened.

Before Thomas had a moment to celebrate that it had worked, he saw the second Griever, now off the wall and directly in front of them, pushing forwards- and heard the first Griever slow to a stop.

They were sandwiched.

“ARE YOU CRAZY!” Minho screamed, shaking him, tears running down his face.

“Get used to it!” Thomas yelled, Pulling Minho to his feet and now running at the Griever blocking their exit, planning to slide underneath it as well, but either it had seen what they’d pulled on its cohort or it was designed differently, but it was too low to the ground for it to work. They had no time, but as they left the dead end the vines were once again creeping on the walls. It was all they had, it _had_ to work. “Wall! Vines! Jump!” was all Thomas had time to shout of his plan, and he hoped it would be enough.

Right when he was nearly on top of the Griever Thomas dodged to the side and leapt at the wall, grabbing a vine as he went and using his arms to pull himself up and over until he was running sideways against the wall. He was dizzy, his heart was beating out of his chest, and Thomas honestly thought he was about to throw up, but then he was rolling to the ground and the Grievers were both behind them and Minho was crashing down next to him with a pained grunt, but they were _alive_ and running once again.

“Cliff?” Thomas asked, not sure how much more talking he could do at the pace, but Minho nodded, and on they ran.

Sounds of pursuit, this time from both Grievers, followed close behind. Sure that he was pushing his body beyond its physical limits, he ran on, trying to rid himself of the hopeless feeling that it was only a matter of time before his luck ran out. Together, they ran through the corridors, taking turn after turn. Minho was back on his A game, he seemed to know exactly what he was doing, where they were going; there was no more room for mistakes at this point.

Every inch of his body hurt, inside and out; his limbs cried for him to quit running. But he ran on, hoping his heart didn’t quit pumping. A few turns later, Thomas saw something ahead of him that gave him hope—the Cliff lay just ahead.

Minho skidded to a stop, unsteady on his feet, but still threw out an arm to make sure that Thomas didn’t go over. One second, that’s all Thomas took for himself to catch his breath and collect himself before he whipped himself around to face the oncoming Grievers. They were now only dozens of yards away, single file, charging in with a vengeance, moving faster than Thomas ever remembered them moving.

Thomas looked at Minho, who was still standing oddly though Thomas chalked it up to exhaustion, and nodded.

They shuffled their feet until they stood scrunched up together in front of the drop-off at the very middle of the corridor, facing that Grievers. Their heels were only inches from the edge of the Cliff behind them, nothing but air waiting after that.

The only thing left was timing.

“We need to be in sync!” Minho yelled, and Thomas couldn’t help the rebellious smirk that came to his face at the words, the Deja-vu calming him and filling him with certainty. “On my mark!”

Why the Grievers lined up single file was a mystery. Maybe the Maze proved just narrow enough to make it awkward for them to travel side by side. But one after the other, the rolled down the stone hallway, clicking and moaning and ready to kill. Dozens of yards had become dozens of feet, and the monsters were only seconds away from crashing into the waiting boys.

“Ready,” Minho said steadily. “Not yet… not yet…”

Thomas hated every millisecond of waiting.

“Now!” screamed Minho.

Just as the first Griever’s arm extended out to nip at them, Minho and Thomas dove in opposite directions, each toward one of the outer walls of the corridor. The tactic had worked for Thomas a year before and judging by the horrible screeching sound that escaped the first Griever, it had worked again. The monster flew off the edge of the Cliff.

Thomas landed against the wall and spun just in time to see it tumble over the edge, not able to stop itself. But the second creature was able to stop itself in time, teetering on the very edge of the cliff, a spike and a claw holding it in place.

Thomas knew what he had to do, as did Minho. Without looking at each other both boys ran in at the Griever and jumped feetfirst at the creature, kicking out at the last second with every waning bit of strength. They both connected, sending the last monster plummeting to its death.

Thomas scrambled from the edge of the abyss, his heart beating out of his chest and hysteria setting in. They’d done it, they’d actually shucking done it!

“Uh, Thomas?” Minho mumbled, his voice shaky and afraid.

Heart crashing in the black depths, Thomas turned to look at Minho, who was clutching his hip as though sheer pressure could stop the flow of red from spreading.

“Wh—” Thomas began, crashing to his knees in front of Minho, who slowly slid to the ground with a groan.

“Shuckface got me when we ran over top of them earlier. I didn’t know it was this bad.”

Thomas moved Minho’s hands to get a look at it himself. It wasn’t horrible, not life threatening, except for the fact that they were miles away from the Glade, it was _definitely_ past lunch time, and there was no way Minho could run.

Thomas removed his shirt and started making bandages, helping Minho to bind the wound and stand. He would be fine if they could get him back to Clint before the Walls closed, but the clock was ticking, and Minho looked like he’d already been beaten.

They boys stood, helping each other, and they draped Minho’s arm across Thomas’s shoulders as they went.

Each step was laced with guilt, and with regret. They were walking too slowly, far too slowly, and Thomas couldn’t help but repeat the same words over and over in his head. His promise to Newt.

_“I’m coming back, Newt. Nothing fancy, no cutting it close, back by lunch.”_

And he’d already broken it.


	10. Reckless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt's not having his best day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is short, but that's how it had to be. I cannot thank you all enough for the amount of love this story has gotten, seriously, thank you so much. Over 400 kudos?! That's insane. Thank you, I love you all. You might have noticed that this story is part of a series now, so get excited. We are doing a whole trilogy. Buckle up, darlings, it's gonna be one hell of a ride.

Frypan rang the lunch bell, and Newt closed his eyes in resignation.

He’d been sat there in front of the Door for the past hour, ignoring the looks he was getting from the rest of the Gladers, anxiously awaiting the return of the bumbling idiots he’d sent out on a stupid mission that was never going to work in the first place. Newt maintained his original decision- if you knew the bloody Griever was going to attack you, you don’t go chasing after the buggin’ thing.

Never again. Never, again. He didn’t care how suspicious WCKD would end up getting if they didn’t follow their normal procedures, or how much more difficult everything would be to manage, Thomas wasn’t going off on his own assuming that because he managed to get lucky the last time he would somehow manage it again. No more dangerous plans. Never mind the fact that their entire existence was essentially a dangerous plan, that wasn’t the point. The point was that at this rate Newt was going to die of a heart attack before anything else even had a _chance_ to kill him.

He didn’t realize that he’d been pacing back and forth, angrily muttering to himself, until his thrice-cursed stupid leg chose that exact moment to cramp and send Newt crashing to the ground, screaming his frustration out in a number of unflattering images to describe stupid boys who were too confident for their own good.

“Uh, Newt?”

Bugger.

“’Lo, Chuckie,” Newt forced out, lying flat on the ground with his arm over his eyes, questioning every life decision that had led him to this exact moment. “What can I do for you?”

“Are you… okay?” Chuck asked. Newt freed one eye from the trap of his arm to take a look at the lad, only to find poor Chuckie standing there with a bowl of food clearly meant for Newt and a look on his face like the world as he knew it was ending.

Which, mind you, to him it might actually appear that it was- considering no one in the Glade had ever seen Newt lose control and here he was in a position that _clearly_ indicated that he’d fresh run out of fucks to give. Past him was a bloody Saint and clearly taken for granted by everyone around him, but if Newt didn’t get his shit together and start acting like the Second in Command he might well be ousted from his position and locked in the Slammer for safe keeping.

“I’m alright, mate. Just fell over is all, got a bit angry at my leg. Thank you for bringing me my lunch and give Frypan my thanks as well.” Newt pulled himself to a sitting position, grabbed the bowl, and began eating in the misguided hopes that Chuck would take the hint and sod off, but no such luck.

“Angry at your leg?” Chuck asked.

“Yes… it cramps? I limp? Hurts whenever it feels like it and is excessively dramatic?” Newt elaborated, speaking with his mouth full and rapidly losing patience with the chubby kid before him.

“No, I know that! Just… how can your leg be a ‘dim-witted shuck face who can never follow instructions’?” Chuck asked, tilting his head to the side and squinting down at Newt.

Newt clenched his teeth, glaring up at Chuck as frustration and anger and embarrassment warred within him for the right to speak. This time, though, Chuckie took the hint and left, but Newt didn’t entirely appreciate the fact that he backed away slowly with widening eyes as if Newt were a wild animal about to unleash himself. That was just ridiculous.

No, what was ridiculous was that Newt was scared sick and was doing absolutely anything in his power to ignore the fact that it was very well possible either one or both the people he cared most about in this world weren’t going to come through those doors before they closed in a few hours, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Helpless, that’s what he was. What he’d recently rediscovered that he hated being. He had discovered that he despised being helpless once before, when the weight of being trapped in this place with no way out and being controlled by an unseen entity had crushed him into nothing—and the fall from the wall had crushed his leg in a similar manner. After that incident he’d decided to lead, to do things for others, take care of them, because at least then he was _doing_ something. At least then he’d found that he had _some_ power over how things happened. It wasn’t much, but it had been enough to get him through the days.

And then he’d gotten the Virus and had been helpless as another unseen entity attacked him from the inside. It stole away his willpower, his control, his memories, and he’d been helpless against it. The only decision he could make was to hide it from the others while they focused on Minho—but he hadn’t even been able to manage that much completely. The untamed rage had stolen the decision of ‘when’ from him as well.

The grass underneath of him was starting to itch, so Newt stood once more, stood and faced the darkening skies and the fact that once again he was helpless against whatever was happening inside those cursed walls. Helpless and standing on the sidelines, where the universe apparently decided he was meant to be.

“Still not back yet?” Alby asked, appearing at Newt’s left side without a sound, but Newt was too preoccupied to be startled.

“No, but they still have a couple of hours. They could simply be tired- maybe they found something interesting. Could be anything.”

Newt deliberately didn’t look at the face he knew Alby was making at him. Instead he chewed on his lips and continued to stare at the doors. “Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” Alby questioned softly, voice betraying no emotion.

The amount of questioning he was getting from people was beginning to annoy him, and he didn't like being annoyed with Alby, who had at one point been his best friend. It didn’t help that Thomas was only out in that Maze right now to save Alby’s life—didn’t Alby understand that? Didn’t he care? Or was this not real for him at all?

One look at Alby’s downcast eyes and paler than normal skin informed Newt both that he was a slinthead and that the guilt at what could be happening out there was nearly eating the man alive. The air rushed out of Newt all at once, and he clapped a hand on Alby’s shoulder in solidarity.

“Both of us, mate. I’m trying to convince the both of us.”

 

 

Two hours later found Alby and Newt both standing in front of the doors, heartbeats thudding in their chests, because they were nearly out of time. “When did—” Alby began, but Newt spied a glowing spot of red on the ground near them and silenced Alby before he could ask the question Newt knew was on the tip of his tongue.

“Slim it, I’m thinking.” Newt snapped.

‘When did we finally show up last time’, Alby wanted to ask. And the answer was that they came too bloody late for anyone to do anything other than run into the Maze to their supposed death with them. A crowd had begun to grow in front of the doors and Newt’s levels of anxiety were rising ever higher. He still didn’t see a thing.

Helpless. Useless. Always the one to be saved, and never to do the saving. Order. Following order and staying put, that was Newt.

“Alby?” Newt said, glancing down at his watch, a huge, rolling, wave of _something_ forming up inside of him from some previously unknown source.

“What? Do you see them?” Alby asked excitedly, craning his neck and squinting at shadows.

Helpless.

Helpless.

Helpless.

“I’m really sorry about this, mate.”

Helpless….

…Not anymore.

And with 5 minutes to spare until the Doors would close behind him, Newt sprinted into the Maze.

“NO!” Was screamed from about a hundred different directions, but Newt was far too gone into the haze of his past failures to care.

The Maze was just as horrible as he remembered, he was maybe 100 meters inside it when the endless cold from the surrounding stone seeped into his bones, and he swore that his leg tried to buckle in response to the memories trying to flood his mind—but Newt wouldn’t let them. Not this time. He would be a side character in his own damn story no longer, not when he could _do something_.

The path to the Cliff was clear in his mind as Newt ran, but he only had to take two turns before he was greeted by the most wonderful sound he could have heard at that moment.

“YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME!”

“YOU’RE BOTH INSANE!”

“NEWT TURN YOUR ASS AROUND—“

“SHUCK FACED SHANK YOU’RE GOING THE WRONG WAY!”

There was Thomas, and Minho, both of them covered in blood and Thomas without a shirt—and don’t think for one second that Newt wouldn’t be getting _that_ story from them—but they were moving far too slowly to get to the Doors in time.

“Slim it!” Newt yelled against their barrage of remarks, continuing to run headfirst at them. In what felt like both an eternity and the blink of an eye, Newt was finally upon them and getting over to Minho’s other side to help drag him the rest of the way home.

“Can’t believe it…” Minho gasped, in near hysterics. “Both of you… absolutely nuts…”

“Less talking, brother, we’ve only got two minutes,” Newt panted, ignoring his leg and the oppressive wind that was starting to come from behind them, the last warning before the doors would begin to close.

“We are definitely having a conversation about this later! Hypocrisy, hypocrisy will be a topic!” Thomas grunted out as they ran. At this point Newt was pretty sure that Minho’s contribution was to keep his legs off of the ground so that his tripping feet wouldn’t make them all fall over. Even given all of that, Newt couldn’t keep the bitterness from rising to the surface.

“Yeah, well,” Newt spat, “Try not to make promises you can’t keep, Tommy.”

Thomas had no time to respond, because they had one minute left and they’d only just rounded the last corner. 200 meters lay between them and home, and Newt’s leg wasn’t going to keep up much longer, it wasn’t used to this kind of thing anymore. In his mad rush to do something, anything, he’d forgotten that this body wasn’t as conditioned as he’d been before he died.

The sight waiting for them at the end of the run was alarming—60 boys screaming for them, cheering them on, while Alby lay on the ground a few feet back, completely unconscious. While Newt was curious, stopping to stare was _not_ the appropriate action at the moment.

30 seconds.

But with Newt and Thomas giving it all they had, it still took Minho finding some willpower in an abandoned corner of his being and dropping to his feet to run for the last few meters for them to slip through the doors, barely. Newt and Thomas shoved Minho through the small crack first, and then Thomas pushed Newt, and then Newt and Gally had to work to tug Thomas through, and then it was over.

A few seconds to breathe, that’s all he needed, but it seemed that Thomas wasn’t even willing to give him that much. Newt felt a hand on his shoulder, trying to turn him around, and something within Newt just… just _cracked._

Newt allowed Thomas to turn him around and used the momentum to punch him directly across the face, sending him sprawling backwards. “You don’t get to judge me for this!” Newt yelled, about at his wits end from stress. “’Back by lunch’, you said. ‘No crazy plans’, you said. You _promised me._ ”

Thomas looked at Newt like he was a stranger, like he’d looked at Newt when he had lost his head in the meeting over Teresa and the Crank fueled rage had taken him over. He knew people were staring, that he was making a scene, but he couldn’t keep the tears from welling up in his eyes—he never wanted Thomas to look at him like that again.

“He saved my life, Newt. I fucked up,” Minho forced out, trying to make his voice carry from where Clint and Jeff were carrying him off at high speeds to the med jack hut. “I’m the one who fucked up, he saved us both!”

Guilt did nothing to help the roiling emotions inside him, and Newt couldn’t take his eyes off of Thomas, convinced that he’d soiled their entire friendship because he couldn’t keep his damn emotions in check. He knew it wasn’t Thomas’s fault, he _knew_ this, but he just- he couldn’t-

Thomas slowly got to his feet, his hands outstretched slightly, whispering, “It’s okay, Newt. It’s alright, I swear, It’s okay…”

Flashbacks. Flashbacks to Newt fighting every fiber of his being not to kill Tommy, his Tommy, only wrestling control away for seconds at a time, to see Thomas approaching him the same way, trying to calm, to sooth.

“You promised,” Newt said softly, tears coming down his face at an alarming rate, his breath coming even faster. He was shaking, and he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t do this, he couldn’t do this all again and be afraid the whole time, not again, he had to fight _back_ this time and—

Strong arms closed around him, Thomas was whispering in his ear over and over again the same words, “I’m sorry, Newt, I’m so sorry.”

Newt had no idea how long they stood like that before Gally broke the silence.

“AM I THE ONLY ONE HERE WHO HASN’T LOST THEIR SHUCKING MINDS?!”

Newt broke away from Thomas, now covered in his sweat due to the man’s lack of a shirt, which really, why? Gally was waving his arms around and pointing, eyebrows higher than Newt had ever seen them, and he was purple in the face.

Newt didn’t know what to say anymore, what to do. None of this was in the script.

“Are you going to toss me in the Slammer?” Newt mumbled out, because some traitorous part of his brain decided that his mouth should still have speaking rights. Gally’s eye twitched, and this wasn’t funny, it wasn’t, but Newt was on emotional overload and he was quite sure that he was losing his mind. Well, not really, he knew what losing his mind felt like because—

“Newt,” Thomas said. “Please for the love of god stop talking.”

Did he say that out loud?

“YES!! **You’re talking right now**!! I HAD TO KNOCK OUT ALBY TO KEEP HIM FROM RUNNING AFTER YOU! STOP BEING WEIRD OKAY BECAUSE WITH MINHO OUT AND ALBY ON THE GROUND THAT WOULD MAKE ME IN CHARGE AND I DON’T WANT TO BE IN _CHARGE OF YOU LUNATICS!”_ Gally screamed, and, forgive Newt for thinking it but he seriously looked like he needed a hug.

“ ** _I do not need a shucking hug Newt, Thomas get him out of here!”_**

Oops.


	11. Hypocrisy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas grows in emotional maturity, but don't expect it to last.

“Newt, man, what the hell were you thinking?” Thomas whispered, concern winning out over patience, though he had to admit that he’d been pretty damn patient considering the circumstances.

He’d gotten them both to the large group showers on the other side of the Glade and shoved Newt under the water, fully clothed, to help calm him down and ground him. There was just something about running water that allowed the world to quiet down around you, that let your mind breathe a sigh of relief. The fact that Thomas knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that WCKD never had any cameras here was only an extremely alluring side benefit.

Thomas watched the water flatten Newt’s hair and make his clothes stick to his skin, using the sight of Newt, there, safe, in front of Thomas to slow his heartbeat. He’d felt like he was one shock short from a panic attack the moment Minho had screamed about the second Griever, and finding Newt suddenly in the Maze with him had done nothing to ease the stress. What would they have done if they hadn’t made it through the doors on time? Would Newt’s leg have been able to hold out? Or would Thomas have had to tie both Newt and Minho into the vines and then let the Grievers chase him around in circles until he collapsed from exhaustion?

He’d lost Newt once already, he wasn’t losing him again.

“What happened?” Newt mumbled. Thomas let his eyes roam over him, relaxing even more as it seemed like his friend was fully in charge of himself again. Newt was wiping the hair out of his face, but he made no move to leave the water.

“What do you mean?” Thomas asked, unsure of what exactly Newt was referring to. Had he blacked out when he lost his brain filter or something?

“You were late.”

“Oh,” Thomas sighed. If they were having this conversation here, then Thomas had might as well take advantage of the water to get Minho’s blood off of him. Not like he was wearing a shirt anyway, his had been ripped up to use as bandages to help stem the bleeding. The water felt cool on his heated skin, and Thomas really wished the Newt would meet his gaze. “There was a second Griever.”

There was a sharp intake of breath, but Newt didn’t interrupt.

“We think it called for reinforcements when Minho and I split up, or something. The one playing dead chased me along the walls, but the second intercepted Minho before he even reached the Cliff.” Thomas retold the story, watching carefully for any reaction from Newt who, beyond tilting his face up into the stream of water, hadn’t moved an inch or even shown that he was listening, until Thomas finished.

“How bad is Minho’s hip?” Newt asked, though his voice was almost lost in the rushing water.

“It’s not awful, the worst part was the bleeding. I’m not sure how it’ll affect the plan, though. I guess if we leave him on bedrest until it’s go time he should still be able to run enough to get out of here.”

Newt nodded a bit, and Thomas saw him curl in on himself, make himself smaller, and Thomas wanted to scream. That’s not how this was supposed to go, Newt is supposed to be the confident one. The one who keeps his shit together, so what made him crack?

“That’s a pretty decent reason to be late, I s’pose.”

Thomas waited, expecting Newt to keep going, to maybe answer the question that Thomas had asked him in the first place, but he didn’t. So, Thomas asked him again.

“Newt, what were you thinking? You call me out for being the reckless one but then you go off and pull a stunt like that? Do you have any idea how dangerous—”

“Yes, well, if I hadn’t then you and Minho would still be in that Maze right now!” Newt spat out, eyes glaring at the wall, but still not looking at Thomas.

“Do we really need to have the hypocrisy talk right now? Like, seriously? Because I cannot tell you the amount of times I have been on the receiving end of the lecture I’m trying to give you right now! You can’t just yell at me for doing dangerous shit and tell me to stick to the plan, and then you just take the plan, set it on fire, and bury the ashes!”

Thomas wiped water off of his face and nearly groaned in frustration.

“Newt, you’re supposed to be the voice of reason, okay. You’re the one who tells me when enough is enough, not the other way around! You’re the one who sees the whole picture and you balance me out—I can’t do this without you, okay?”

“I can’t just—” Newt turned and punched the wall, making Thomas jump and begin to fear for his friend. Thomas left his stream of water and slowly approached Newt, trying not to startle him. This anger… this was reminiscent of a disease it was impossible for Newt to have for a number of reasons. But that didn’t keep it from nearly stopping Thomas’s heart from beating. Thomas gently placed his hand on Newt’s shoulder, feeling the other boys heat rise up through the fabric, despite the water crashing down on their heads. Thomas made no move to try and turn him around, he just stood close while Newt rested his head and fist against the wall he’d just beaten.

“Newt…” Thomas had no idea what to say, so he didn’t.

“I died. I did everything I could, I _fought_ and after everything,” Newt gasped out in a broken whisper, with his eyes closed shut, “After everything, I decided that I still wanted to _live_ only to still die and how the hell d’you come back from that? You want me to see the whole picture, but I am so bloody afraid that one wrong move and everything will be lost. We’ve got this second chance and I _can’t_ just sit on the sidelines anymore.”

Finally, Newt turned around to face him, though his eyes remained closed as he leaned his back against the wall.

“This is a second chance, Tommy,” Newt continued. “We won’t get another after this. It was impossible for it to happen the first time, we _have_ to get this right. I can’t just sit here and be helpless again, watching you go out and risk your life over and over again. Even your luck will run out eventually.”

He was right, Thomas knew he was right, but there was nothing to be done for it. They all had a part to play, and Newt’s was to go on being the caretaker. Being the Glue. Holding them all together, at least until they were out of the Maze. Out of the facility. Thomas wasn’t naïve enough to think that they’d be able to keep the act up forever, even now it had to be painfully obvious to WCKD that not all was as it seemed. Newt wasn’t one to break the rules, _Alby_ wasn’t one to follow suit. What reason would there be for Newt to be so attached to a new Greenie?

The longer they were here, the more at risk they were, but there was nothing to be done for it. Nothing but to carry on and hope for the best, lay low until the time was right. Let the Keepers finish their tasks, let the Gladers prepare for what was coming. The only way they got out of this with everyone alive was to take WCKD by surprise, to beat the clock they’d set in motion the moment they sent Teresa up in the box. Minho getting hurt just made matters worse, because now that meant Thomas would have to take his place as a runner, and there was no way Newt would let that happen peacefully again.

“I was sat there in front of those doors for hours, goin’ out of my buggin’ mind, jumping at shadows waiting for you to show. And you never did.”

Guilt, raw and violent, clawed at Thomas’s gut.

“Newt,” Thomas sighed, retreating back across the showers because being that close was giving his hands the impression that they were allowed to touch, but they weren’t. And he was intimately aware of the fact that he was still shirtless, and cold, and feeling oddly exposed. “I lost you once already. You literally died in my arms and I lived a world without you in it, you get that, right?”

Newt flinched backed like the words were a blow, but Thomas didn’t regret saying them. Not if there was some slight chance that it would make Newt _understand_.

“That world?” Thomas continued, “That world was a nightmare. I was so, so lost, Newt. I can’t go through that again. If I go through all of this again and the _only person_ I manage to save, is you? It’s worth it. So just like how I don’t get to go off the rails and leave you here alone, you don’t get to either. You matter, you’re not helpless, and we do this all _together_. Good that?”

“See, you say that, but you want to go back into that bloody maze again tomorrow, don’t you? Despite the fact that you already know everything you could possibly know already?” Newt demanded.

“I have to, Newt, I—”

“No, you don’t! You literally don’t! There is no reason why all of us can’t walk out those doors first thing in the morning, input the bloody code, and be on our way. _None._ ” Newt argued, eyes blazing straight into Thomas’s soul because _finally_ Newt looked him in the eyes, and it was with anger, of course.

“And, what? Drag both Minho and Teresa on stretchers hoping that we can carry them both and get through the hole with them unconscious?!” Thomas said. “We need speed, Newt. They’ll realize what we’re doing, they’ll send up Grievers, and then we’re stuck protecting the stretchers instead of running for our lives. And then what, you gonna just toss them at the hole and hope you don’t miss? Is that your plan?”

“Minho will at the very least be able to jump down the hole.”

“And Teresa?”

“Leave her.”

That stopped Thomas short, because Newt wasn’t joking. His face was solid as stone, unyielding, defiant. Daring Thomas to argue this, a dare Thomas took gladly. “We leave _no one_.”

The laugh that came from Newt was harsh, and cruel. “So, what, we stay here, keeping ourselves in danger of being outed, just so we can save a girl who is going to betray us later? Who got so many of us killed the first time?!”

“This Teresa has done _nothing_ wrong, Newt! _Nothing!_ And she won’t betray us this time, I know the right arguments to use, I know how to make her stay—”

“Thomas, I swear to god if you tell that skeevy bint that you’re the cure I will shoot her myself. She will have you bagged up and hooked to wires so quickly that there will be _nothing_ I can do to save your stupid ass!”

There were scant inches between them now, they’d both moved forward in their anger, panting and red faced. Thomas almost couldn’t even recognize his voice for how gravelly it went, hoarse with emotion. “Teresa died saving my life, trying like hell to save _your_ life—”

“AND LOOK HOW GOOD OF A JOB SHE DID!” Newt screamed, his eyes had a shine to them that Thomas had never seen before, couldn’t interpret. But he was too angry to try, couldn’t understand why Newt wasn’t seeing the big picture, wasn’t getting it. “ _I still died._ You went and got yourself struck by lightning of all things and _died_ as well so lovely Teresa’s noble sacrifice was for _nothing!”_

“IT WAS FOR **EVERYTHING** YOU IDIOT!” Thomas yelled, pushing Newt backwards in his fury. He’d feel bad about it later but damn it Thomas had had a rough day, and this was not what he needed right now. He was at his wits end, emotional overload, and he and Newt needed to be partners, to stick together, they couldn’t afford to fight like this. Not now. “Don’t you get it?! How do you think I saved you the _very first day_ I got here, huh? You think I just woke up one day realizing I’m the fucking cure? If Teresa hadn’t done what she did, I would be stuck in this hell **_forced to let you die again_**. You don’t like her? Fine! But I am so sick and tired of watching people die, and we will not leave her behind!”

Newt seemed to have been shocked silent, so Thomas continued, his voice quieting. “Say we leave her. Say we just go to the Cliff tomorrow and make a break for it. How do you plan to explain to WCKD how we got out? That after three years you just suddenly got out of here? What’s the plan for that?”

Newt stayed silent, eyes wide, shaking his head.

“Because they certainly wouldn’t believe that we didn’t know something, hide something. I can’t imagine them letting us go to stage two if for some reason they think we cheated, outsmarted them. We have to go through the motions, but beat their timeline. That is the only way this works.”

More silence.

Thomas didn’t know what to do. Newt had never challenged him like this, they’d never fought, and even if they had disagreed on something it had never turned into something as ugly as what occurred between them just now. He knew he should leave, give Newt some time to calm down and get his head back on properly, but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. Underneath it all, was Newt. His Newt. He was all that Thomas had, really. Eventually Thomas would be able to accept the others as well, but it was too hard. Too hard to think of Minho and Alby and Gally and the other has  _his_.

And Newt, behind the anger, was still upset over everything. Shuck it, he’d just been so out of it that he had no filter—and, what, Thomas was just supposed to take everything Newt said at face value and walk away? No. That’s not how this worked. And thinking of it that way, Thomas has behaved like a real slinthead. He should have stopped the conversation, not pushed the issue. Waited for Newt to be more himself.

“I’m sorry, Newt,” Thomas admitted, head hung in shame.

“I don’t want your pity, Thomas.”

His words were harsh, and wow Thomas really hated Newt using his real name, but they were said softer than before, with less of an edge.

“It’s not pity,” Thomas explained. “I know you better than this. We have been through _too much_ for this, okay? You aren’t alright, right now.”

“No, I’m not,” Newt said, like it was an admission of guilt. “But you aren’t either, are you?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“I’m scared, Tommy.” Hearing the nickname shouldn’t do so much to calm him, it just shouldn’t, but it does. A breath of air escapes from his lungs at the sound of it. “I’m scared that the longer we stay here, the more it’ll get fucked up. That it can’t possibly work out as well as we want it to. We need to get out of this Maze, and onto the next part, and away from WCKD before it happens all over again.”

“It won’t,” Thomas said, voice low. “We won’t let it happen again, Newt. We won’t.”

Newt shook his head and wiped at his eyes, and when he looked at Thomas again, they were clear. “You don’t know that, mate.”

“I do, actually. We know every move in their playbook before they play it; we can do this. I promise.”

Newt flinched at the words, so Thomas moved closer and said them again. “I promise, Newt. We are going to get out of this alive, no virus, and we are going to fix what we messed up last time. I’m not saying it’ll be perfect, but it’ll be better. Better by a long shot.” Better because you’ll be there with me on that beach this time, I won’t accept any other ending to this--but Thomas wasn't saying that bit out loud.

Newt reached out and grabbed Thomas’s hand, squeezing tight and nodding slightly. “We’ll bring the girl, we’ll let Minho heal, but I don’t trust her. I won’t.”

“That’s fine,” Thomas chuckled. “Just don’t actively try to kill her and I can manage the rest.”

Something flashed in Newt’s eyes, but it was there and gone too quickly for Thomas to catch it, to examine it closer. “I’m sorry,” Newt offered instead. “For flying off the handle like that. Not the punch though, you deserved that bit.”

Thomas turned his hand in Newt’s palm so that he was the one holding his instead, and held tight for a moment. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for, Newt. Now let’s get out of here, check on Alby and Minho.” It took everything he had to force himself to drop Newt’s hand and start to walk away, off in search of some dry clothes. But Newt called him back one more time.

“Tommy?” That name, that name that had Thomas hooked from the moment it was first used.

“Yeah?”

“Why, exactly, are you running around without a shirt again?” Newt looked flustered and confused, and almost completely back to normal, and the sight of it was relief enough to allow Thomas to smile.

Newt caught up to where Thomas was walking and they left the showers, side by side, and Thomas explained how his inability to make a proper bandage from strips off only the bottom of his shirt led to him taking the damn thing off to use to stem Minho’s bleeding, and then having to listen to Minho’s outrageous comments about it for two hours straight.

Newt’s laugh made the whole ordeal worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap, the love you guys give this story is honestly what keeps it going. I appreciate the patience in regards to typos, and my complete lack of an update schedule, and I love you all so much. I'll do my best to not disappoint, and I hope that the maturity Thomas shows here doesn't seem too out of character for it. He was honestly getting better at it by the end of TDC, and he's had a few "come to jesus" moments since then as well.
> 
> Doesn't mean he isn't oblivious, of course, but oh well.


	12. Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes a white lie is the only course of action.

They met up with Alby outside of the med-jacks hut, now dried off and in cleaner clothes. Alby had a sizeable lump on his head and was clearly in a sour mood, though his face only darkened when he saw them approaching. Alby immediately changed course and instead of striding into the hut he made a bee-line for Newt, but Thomas stepped in front of him on instinct.

“You really don’t wanna go there, buddy,” Thomas said. He met Alby’s angry eyes without flinching and held his ground. “He’s been lectured, it’s been handled, but whatever you were thinking about doing just now? I’m gonna need you to not.”

It wasn’t a threat, at least Thomas didn’t mean for it to be one. It was a fact. If Alby made a move against Newt, like it looked he was about to do, then Thomas would be forced to act. And maybe if it was Thomas the Greenie who was here with them now, Alby would stand a chance, but it wasn’t. Thomas has been through the ringer a few times and if Alby pressed the issue it would end up with more people needing medical attention and Thomas locked in the Slammer again. So, no.

“Tommy—”

“Slim it, Newt.” Thomas didn’t even look behind him, his eyes were steel against the panicked rage that burned in Alby’s, refusing to yield even an inch. When their standoff ended with Alby walking away and into the hut, Thomas felt like something far more important had just transpired than him defending Newt.

“You’re a right whacker sometimes, ya know that right?” Newt asked softly, coming out from behind Thomas with a slight glare that contrasted with the pleased tint to his cheeks. “I can take care of myself.”

Thomas decided not to comment on that.

 

 

Clint, Jeff, and Alby were standing around Minho’s bed where the Keeper was clearly flustered by the amount of the attention. “Thomas! Nice of you to find a shirt, was Newt getting jealous?” Minho grinned at them, but his skin was still too pale and the sheen of sweat over his features wasn’t encouraging. Newt had apparently chosen to ignore the comment, and instead began to quiz the senior med-jacks.

“Well? What’s the verdict?” Newt asked, going to sit on a stool near Minho’s bed. Without a word of warning Jeff knelt on the ground before him and began to inspect his leg. “Oi! I’m not the one who was bloody stabbed, stop your proddin’.”

Jeff ignored him, Thomas was reminded that he liked Jeff quite a bit, and the positive image of him helping Newt worked to erase the sight of Jeff’s death from his mind. Bit by bit, the walking nightmares began to fade.

“No running,” Clint said. “Not until he has no choice, but preferably for at least a week. Nothing crazy was torn or damaged, he’s gotta be the luckiest shank alive--just blood loss.”

“Not lucky,” Minho interrupted. “It was all Thomas. I fucked up and he got our asses out of there.”

Before Thomas could move to deny it, Alby stepped up.

“What do you mean you ‘fucked up’?” the older boy demanded. Minho sighed and relaxed farther back against his pillows, it looked like he could barely keep his eyes open.

“I was on the wrong day, I was distracted. When the second Griever showed up I _panicked_ and ran wild like a klunk pants Greenbean fresh from the box. I led both of us to a dead end, with two of those ugly bugs right behind us.”

Silence.

“How the hell are you still _alive_?” Jeff whispered, pausing from where he was clearly running Newt’s leg through several flexibility exercises. “How do you come back from that?”

Minho’s eyes met Thomas’s, as though waiting to see how far they were going with this. Thomas had left Minho’s decision to sacrifice himself from the narrative he’d given Newt, he hadn’t felt like it was his place, but if Minho wanted to go into now then Thomas wouldn’t stop him.

“I didn’t think we could,” Minho admitted softly. “I tried to rush the Grievers myself, dive on their blades, to give Thomas a chance to get away while they dealt with me.”

More silence.

Then pandemonium.

“You _what?!_ ” Newt’s outburst was the loudest, considering he’d leapt from his stool and nearly kicked Jeff in the face. Minho hung his head, so Newt turned instead on Thomas. “You left that bit out in your piece of storytelling! What else, did Zart the Fart show up with a bloody laser gun and blast the Maze to bits?!”

Thomas looked down. “It wasn’t my part of the story to tell, Newt.”

“You crazy shank, and then what?” Alby demanded, worry lining his face although the moment of danger had long passed. And Thomas got it, he did. Why Alby was so angry at Newt, despite clearly trying to follow him into madness. Thomas even understood the dislike that Alby threw his way, he understood it perfectly.

Before Thomas got here, Newt had been his person. His best friend. They built this Glade together and protected their people together and provided hope for the Glade to share, a hope so firmly grounded in order and stability, and Thomas just shows up and ruins it all. This Newt isn’t Alby’s Newt, this one grew without him. This one was closer to some new shank than he was to him, and they were slowly destroying Alby’s entire world—it didn’t really matter that their reasons were good ones.

But even with all of that, Alby still cared. Still wanted to help, wanted to keep people safe. He was worried for his people, for his friends, and that was one thing he and Thomas could agree on. It gave Thomas hope that maybe, just maybe, once they survived everything coming their way, he and Alby might even be friends. Thomas would like that.

“And then Thomas knocked me on my ass, pushed me underneath the Griever, and then had us run sideways along the wall to jump _over_ the other one. I didn’t get my jump right, and it sliced me, but this shuck face practically flew. After that, it was just dump them off the Cliff. Then Thomas dragged my happy ass to the Doors, until Newt showed up.”

Everyone’s eyes were staring at Thomas like he was something you’d find in an exhibit somewhere, and he was at a loss for words on what to say. It had worked, hadn’t it? The particulars of how it all went down didn’t matter so much, in his opinion.

“Speaking of Newt,” Minho continued. “Have we discussed that yet? Has that been a thing? Because it needs to be. You can’t just run around breaking the rules, not when you’re the one who enforces them.”

Alby snorted.

“Yeah, you too, shank,” Minho pointed. “Don’t think we didn’t find out that Gally had to lay you out to keep you from doing the same thing.”

“Apparently,” Alby said. “Newt’s decision has been ‘handled’. There was a lecture. Or so they say.” Alby tipped his head in the direction of Thomas, who couldn’t keep the scowl from his face. Minho grinned, again.

“Yeah, I’ll just bet there was. I hope you put a shirt on first, Thomas, or else I guarantee you’re gonna have to repeat everything all over again.”

Everyone in the room groaned, and that’s when Frypan popped his head in and announced a Gathering had been called.

“Too much klunk has happened, and we gotta decide what to do with you two and Gally.” Frypan explained.

“ _Do with us_?” Newt asked incredulously. “Now just what d’you mean by that?”

It was Clint who answered. “You and Alby either broke our most important rule, or tried to, and Gally for all intents and purposes attacked our Leader. His is at the very least a banishing offence, we’ve got him in the Slammer right now for safe-keeping.”

Frypan shrugged, “We’ll discuss it tomorrow. You three are the only thing on the damn agenda.”

Newt and Alby looked at each other in disbelief, but Thomas couldn’t keep the shit eating grin from his face.

Vindication was a beautiful, beautiful thing.

“Oh, slim it Tommy.”

 

 

Thomas had every intention of crashing the gathering the next morning, but he didn’t bring it up. Instead he left Newt with Minho and Alby and set off to grab some dinner before the kitchen closed, intent on eating his fill and then passing out the moment he could curl up into his hammock. Boys were whispering everywhere, nodding at Thomas in odd ways, and Thomas even saw Winston and Zart each enter the showers with a group of boys—though from those groups, only the Keepers nodded in Thomas’s direction.

Thomas didn’t try to intrude on any of the conversations as he ate, though he did listen in on people who were speaking loud enough to be overheard. Newt’s outburst had people worried, but he couldn’t blame them. To the masses it probably seemed like everyone had lost their minds in the space of a day, and it would continue to be like that until they could be filled in on what was really going on, so Thomas just sat and ate the meal of steak and potatoes in peace. Besides, to Thomas’s brain it had been ages since he’d last eaten a meal like this and he was intent on enjoying every last second of it.

It was as Thomas was laying in his hammock, staring at the branches above and tracing the gnarled patters with his eyes that Chuck decided now would be a good time for a chat.

“Thomas, I think I’m kinda messed up, man.” Chuck began, and Thomas’s heart ached. He knew this conversation. It was important, extremely important to Chuck, so Thomas forced his eyes to focus and refused to allow himself to drift off. “It’s weird to feel sad and homesick, but I have no idea what it is you wish you could go back to, ya know? All I know is I don’t want to be here. I want to go back to my family. Whatever’s there, whatever I was taken from. I wanna _remember_.”

Thomas had to fight to keep his voice from breaking, sorrow leaping in his chest from the memory of holding Chuck’s body in his arms. “I know what you mean,” he murmured.

Chuck was too far away for Thomas to see his eyes as he spoke, but from his next statement, Thomas imagined them filling with a bleak sadness, maybe even tears. “I used to cry. Every night.”

Me too, Chuckie. “Yeah?”

“Like a pants-wettin’ baby. Almost till the day you got here. Then I just got used to it, I guess. This became home, even though we spend every day hoping to get out.”

“I’ve cried a few times since showing up, it’s nothing to feel ashamed about.” Thomas admitted, wanting to give this kid whatever comfort he could.

“You cried?” he heard Chuck say from his own hammock. “In the Maze?”

“Yeah, and a couple other times. When the last Griever fell over the Cliff, I broke down and sobbed till my throat and chest hurt.” It hadn’t happened this time around, but the memory from before was still fresh in his mind. He would remember it for the rest of his life. “Everything crushed in on me at once. Sure made _me_ feel better—don’t feel bad about crying. Ever.”

“Kinda _does_ make ya feel better, huh? Weird how that works.”

A few minutes passed in silence, Thomas found himself waiting to see if Chuck would keep talking along the same vein he had before.

“Hey, Thomas?” Chuck asked.

“Still here.”

“Do you think I have parents? _Real_ parents?”

Thomas felt a tear fall down his cheek, because he knew the answer. He knew it, but he couldn’t find it within himself to give it. “Of course you do, shank. You need me to explain the birds and the bees?” Thomas’s heart hurt—it would come out eventually, the truth, but if he could let Chuck live in ignorance for just a little bit longer, he would.

“That’s not what I meant,” Chuck said, his void completely devoid of cheer. It was low and bleak, almost a mumble. “Most of the guys who’ve gone through the Changing remember terrible things they won’t even talk about, which makes me doubt I have anything good back home. So, I mean, you think it’s really possible I have a mom and a dad out in the world somewhere, missing me? Do you think _they_ cry at night?”

Thomas was completely shocked to realize his eyes had filled with tears. Life had been so crazy since he’d arrived, that he’d forgotten that the Gladers were still under the impression that they had families. Had people waiting for them. They had no idea that once they got out of here there was nothing waiting for them other than a scorched earth filled with monsters, and with people struck by disease. And they wouldn’t have time to deal with that realization once they had it, not with what WCKD had in store for them.

For the second time, he felt something for Chuck that made him so angry he wanted to kill somebody. The boy should be in school, in a home, playing with neighborhood kids. He deserved to go home at night to a family who loved him, worried about him. A mom who made him take a shower every day and a dad who helped him with homework.

Thomas hated WCKD, hated the government, hated the people who’d taken this poor, innocent kid from his family. He hated them with a passion he was all too used to feeling. Thomas wanted Chuck to be alive, and happy.

But happiness had been ripped from their lives. _Love_ had been ripped from their lives more times than Thomas could count.

“Listen to me, Chuck.” Thomas paused, uncertain of how to go on without completely lying to his friend, but there was nothing for it. They were the words that Chuck needed to hear, and Thomas could only hope that he would understand eventually. “I’m sure you have parents. I know it. Sounds terrible, but I bet your mom is sitting in your room right now holding your pillow, looking out at the world that stole you from her. And yeah, I bet she’s crying. Hard. Puffy-eyed, snotty-nosed crying. The real deal.”

Chuck didn’t say anything, but Thomas thought he heard the slightest of sniffles.

“Don’t give up, Chuck. We’re gonna solve this thing, get out of here. I think they’re gonna let me be a Runner now—I promise I’ll get you out of this place, get you somewhere safe.” And Thomas meant it. He felt it _burn_ in his heart.

“Hope you’re right,” Chuck said with a shaky voice.

Thomas heard the younger boy settle into his hammock, and Thomas worked hard to keep his voice from cracking. “I swear, Chuck,” he whispered to no one. “I swear I’ll get you out of here.”

With Gally filled in and on their side, no longer disappearing into the hands of WCKD, Chuck surviving the Maze should be a non-issue. But what about the facility? The Scorch? How on earth was Thomas supposed to lead triple the number of boys as he had the last time across the scorch? How many would survive it? The long hours walking, no food, heartbreak at the state of the world? Could they survive the Cranks? And then a cold sensation covered Thomas from his head to his toes, making his heart stop beating in his chest.

What if more than just Newt weren't immune?

They’d lost Winston to a bite from the Cranks last time, did that mean he wasn’t immune? Or would any of them fall to a bite or scratch, despite their supposed immunity?

The panic caused nausea to rush, swooping, through his stomach—suddenly Thomas regretted his fancy dinner. He highly doubted the steak would taste as good the second time around. How could Thomas have almost overlooked this potential problem? He’d been so zeroed in, so focused, on getting Newt the Cure to save him, that Thomas hadn’t spared a thought for anyone else.

There was nothing for it, no time, he had to act.

Once Chuckie was asleep, Thomas slipped from his hammock and all but sprinted to Clint and Jeff in the med-jack hut, hoping at least one of them was awake to help him out.

What he planned was risky, and would weaken him greatly, but tomorrow he would be at the Gathering anyway, not running. He could take a day to recover, gather his strength again, before dealing with what would come next.

One thought rang crystal clear in his mind, and guilt rained down upon him, but there just wasn’t any time to do this any other way. He should have started days before, if he’d thought about it, so that then Thomas would only have to drain a little bit at a time instead of a bunch in one go. Newt would be so angry that Thomas didn’t wake him, would maybe even be angry that Thomas did this at all, but he had no choice.

When Thomas found Clint and explained to him what he’d just realized, the med-jack’s eyes widened and he jaw dropped open. The healer didn’t take any convincing at all.

“What do you need me to do?” Clint asked.

Time to get to work.


	13. Reversal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consequences are a thing.

When Thomas opened his eyes, he wasn’t sure what he expected to see, but a stale faced Newt with his arms crossed at the foot of his hammock wasn’t it.

“Tell me, Tommy,” Newt began, with danger in his tone. “When exactly did you get Clint to switch loyalties? Because imagine my surprise when I show up this morning to check on Minho, only to find _your_ ugly mug lying in a hammock not five feet from him.”

This wasn’t going to end well.

“Nnguh?” Thomas said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and trying to catch his bearings. Mornings were always difficult for his brain to start functioning, but it wasn’t made any better by Newt standing with his arms crossed, foot tapping, and eyebrows rivaling Gally’s in expression.

“What. Did You. _Do_?” Newt’s voice actually growled there a little bit at the end, and Thomas found himself needing to shift under the blankets in order to keep his composure. He glanced towards where Minho was eating his breakfast in his cot—he’d been fast asleep when Thomas had snuck in here last night—and where Clint was standing by the door, clearly uncomfortable. “Clint won’t tell me klunk, but you look almost as bad as Minho here, who nearly _bled-out yesterday._ ”

“Leave me out of this, I was asleep, I don’t know nothin’,” Minho said, and if Thomas didn’t know any better he was hiding behind his bowl. Coward.

“I did what was necessary,” Thomas grumbled out eventually, doing his best not to shrink back from Newt’s anger though he didn’t think he was managing well. Newt blew out through his nostrils, lips pursed and face white with fury.

“How much did he take.” Newt demanded, eyes looking over at where the some nine odd autoinjectors full of Thomas’s version of the cure sat jumbled together on the counter top. Thomas wanted to give more, nine didn’t seem like enough, but Clint had refused. He had wanted to stop at six, but Thomas had pressed for more… until he had passed out, that was. Thomas assumed that the moment his eyes drooped Clint had halted everything and finished up without him.

“Not enough, Newt, and you know it,” Thomas answered, his mouth watering at the smell of Minho’s soup wafting over to him. He was starving and would need to eat as much as he could in order to regain his strength as fast as possible. Rest was important too, but Thomas had lost more blood than this and still lived to tell the tale so he wasn’t all that concerned. The same couldn’t be said for Newt, however.

A small scratching sound, a - _click click click-,_ came from over by the window and Thomas’s heart nearly stopped beating when a beetle blade made its way inside of the hut, red light steadily beaming.

They were being watched. This conversation couldn’t happen.

Thomas opened his mouth but didn’t know what to say. How to explain why he’d taken such a risk when so much relied upon him being healthy- when his trust and friendship with Newt relied on them being able to trust and rely upon each other. “I’m sorry, Newt,” Thomas said, meeting Newt’s burning eyes with solemnity. “I _will be_ more careful than that.”

Newt gritted his teeth and exhaled sharply. “Yes, well,” his voice was cracking. “The next time you’re injured and don’t tell someone about it I’m tossing you in the Slammer. Assuming I’m not in there myself, that is.”

“Speaking of,” Clint said, clearly sensing that the danger was over now that they were being spied upon. “If we don’t head out soon we’re gonna be late to the Gathering.”

Fuck, already? Thomas was regretting his nighttime activities, and mourning for his empty stomach, when Newt turned back towards him with a smile on his face that promised trouble.

“Very well then,” Newt said. “Thomas, _you_ can go get breakfast and bring it to Gally before escorting him to the Gathering.”

“Brutal,” Minho whispered.

Thomas glared at Newt, and bit down hard on his tongue. Fine, if this was his revenge? If this was what Newt needed to do in order to feel better about what Thomas had done, then so be it. Not breaking the eye contact, Thomas set aside his blanket and reached out to use Newt’s arm to help himself out of the hammock and stand up. Regardless of Newt’s anger his response was immediate—long, strong fingers holding Thomas’s shoulder and gripping tight until Thomas was steady enough to move on his own. Worry crinkled Newt’s eyes but Thomas patted his hand, relishing the comforting contact of his stalwart ally, to reassure him. The worry relaxed, and Newt gave the smallest of nods—Thomas felt like he could breathe again.

He didn’t know what it said about them that they could communicate so clearly with small actions, small gestures. How it was almost as though they could read each other’s minds so long as they were together in the same room. It was a bond worth burning the world over, and Thomas would hold on to it for as long as he had hands to hold with.

Behind them Clint and Minho shared a glance that was more of an eye roll than anything else; one tinged with both fondness and exasperation. Thomas didn't have the patience to figure out what it meant; he was too caught up in Newt to care.

 

 

“Uh, hi Ben,” Thomas stammered. He stood there in front of the door to Gally’s cell holding a steaming bowl of soup and he was entirely uncertain of how to handle the situation before him. In this timeline he’d never even met Ben, hadn’t gotten the chance to. And the only thing he knew about Ben from his own timeline was that he tried to kill him and had a bitchin’ right hook. Thomas gulped, tensing, preparing himself for a fight that he wasn’t sure would even happen when Gally spoke up from his cell.

“Calm down ya shank, he’s not gonna hurt ya,” Gally drawled and Thomas could _feel_ the eyeroll, what the hell.

Ben was squinting at Thomas, head tilted, tongue between his teeth. Thomas couldn’t look away from his eyes, not when the last time he’d seen them they were blown wide in the utter terror felt at being trapped in the Maze. Not when—

“Hey, shuck face, I’m hungry!” Gally said, arm shoved through the bars and trying to grab for the bowl of soup. Thomas bit down his comment and gave the bowl over- ever conscious of the fact that he needed Gally to keep playing along in order for the world not to burn.

“It’s Thomas, right?” Ben asked.

“Yeah, Thomas. That’s uh, that’s me,” Thomas stammered out awkwardly. He rubbed his hand on the back of his neck to give himself something to do with his hands. He heard Gally’s snort from inside but thankfully the shank refrained from commenting.

“Then thank you, Thomas. Apparently, a shitty day could have gone a lot differently had things… gone… differently… y’know what I’m just gonna go, but thanks dude.” Ben, who had turned a flaming red, clapped Thomas on the back before speeding away to go and do whatever it was he did when he wasn’t running.

Thomas stared after him for a few moments, trying to figure out what the hell was going on with his emotions. Clearly Gally, or someone, had told Ben everything to prevent a repeat of the past… but Thomas hadn’t anticipated gratitude. He didn’t deserve gratitude. There was still a version of events where Thomas had been the cause of Ben’s death—this didn’t negate that. He wasn’t allowed to feel relief, so what _was_ he allowed to feel?

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

Finally, Thomas turned away only to find Gally watching him solemnly, clearly giving him a moment to get himself in check. Thomas didn’t know how to repay him that kindness, but he would find a way to do it eventually.

 “Let’s get you outta here, man.” Thomas said. He went to move the bar keeping Gally trapped inside from it’s slot on the door, but Gally stopped him.

“Everyone done being weird out there? Because if not I think I’d rather stay here than deal with all that.”

Thomas snorted and resumed his task. “Can’t say things aren’t gonna go south again but for the moment it’s alright. Let’s just get through the Gathering and see where we stand from there.”

“Wait- what _shucking_ Gathering?” Gally demanded.

Right, because _of course_ Newt would leave Thomas to do the explaining. Perfect, just perfect.

 

 

Half an hour later, Thomas found himself sitting in a chair, amused and curious, relaxed, staring at Alby, Newt, and Gally as they sat facing the Council. He also found a sick sort of glee in the fact that he was sitting in _Gally’s Chair_ and he wasn’t the one in trouble.  He could clearly tell that the air was tense inside of the Council Hall, but he couldn’t help it. Out of everything on his ever-growing list of problems _this wasn’t one of them_.

He was exhausted, and cold, and his arms felt shaky, but he absolutely positively could not take this trial seriously. It was such a small thing, and every Keeper in this room knew it. That was probably the only reason he’d been allowed to stay. But, seriously? What did the rules matter when they’d be out of here in a few days anyway? All they had to do was wait for Teresa to wake up and then-poof. No more Maze.

A quick glance around the room showed Thomas that if nothing else, Minho agreed with him. Newt, on the other hand, was glaring at the indignity of it all.

It was shucking hilarious.

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” Frypan began. He was sitting in the chair Newt had occupied the last time, intent on trying to keep the meeting as serious as it possibly could be. Thomas should probably wipe the smile off of his face. “In place of our leaders, who are the ones on trial, I declare this gathering begun,” he said, with a subtle roll of his eyes as if he hated the formality of it all. “As you all know, yesterday was absolutely shucking ridiculous, and our three leaders lost their damn minds.”

“Hey,” Gally said, his scratchy voice so low and unimpressed it was almost comical. “I did what I had to in order to keep Alby _from_ breaking our most important rule.”

This started off a rumbling of murmurs and whispers, but Frypan shushed them. Thomas was ecstatic to be witnessing this, he really was.

“Gally,” Frypan said. “Try to keep some shuckin’ order, here. If you’re gonna blabber your shuck mouth every time I say something, you can go ahead and go back to the slammer, because I’m so done with this klunk.”

Thomas had to stifle a grin.

It seemed that no matter what version of events they were caught in, Gally couldn’t keep himself from getting reprimanded. At Newt’s glare he settled down, trying to keep the dizziness in his head from getting himself into any more trouble.

Gally folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, the scowl on his face so forced that Thomas almost laughed out loud again. He was having a harder and harder time believing that he’d once been terrified of this guy a year ago—it all seemed so silly, so petty now.

Frypan gave Gally and Thomas a hard stare, then continued. “Glad we got that out of the way.” Another roll of the eyes. “Reason we’re here is because somehow in the past 12 hours you three have managed to break the most important rules we have and set the whole Glade into and uproar! We need to decide what to do with you. Which is ridiculous, given what we _already_ have going on.”

Gally leaned forward, but Fry cut him off before he could day anything.

“You’ll have your chance, Gally. One at a time—and you three don’t get to speak up until we’re done.” He waited for a nod from each of them before continuing on. “Zart, you start.”

“Well,” Zart began, his eyes darting around almost like he was waiting for someone else to tell him what to say. “I don’t know. They all broke rules, our two most important rules. We can’t just let people think that’s okay.” He paused and looked down at his hands, rubbing them together. “But then again, things have… changed. And overall no harm was done in the long run.”

“Any official recommendations?” Frypan asked.

Zart shook his head.

“Winston, you’re up.”

“I think they should be punished. No offense guys, but Newt you’re always the one harping on about _order_ , and then you pull a stunt like this? And Alby, you’re our _Leader_ , right? We need to be able to know we can trust you to keep your head when things go crazy, and you didn’t. I understand what Gally did and why, though he probably should have tried something _other_ than knocking Alby out.”

“Okay,” Frypan said, writing on his notepad. “So, you’re recommending punishment. What kind?”

“I think they should be put in the Slammer for a… oh. Huh.” Winston paused, and Thomas’s heart almost leapt out of his chest. The air in the room grew still as everyone’s attention turned to Winston.

There were three different beetle blades in the room right now, Winston couldn’t break character. None of them could, they couldn’t afford it. Had Winston not seen them? Thomas was internally screaming, Minho looked about ready to pass out, and Newt was primed to leap out of his chair and knock Winston out before he ruined everything on accident.

“A week, I guess,” Winston said, pale beneath his acne, realizing what he’d almost done. “Only bread and water for meals—and we need to make sure everyone knows about it, so they don’t get any ideas.”

Thomas could taste the relief that coursed through the room, though they were careful to let none of it show on their faces.

“Look,” Clint began, eager for his turn. “I get that they need to be punished, but haven’t they already been? Gally spent last night in the Slammer, Alby spent a good portion of yesterday unconscious, and not only was Newt read the riot act by the Greenie, he also had to deal with the Maze itself—not to mention sprinting, on his leg, carrying Minho. Doesn’t punishment at this point feel a bit redundant?”

“So, you recommend…?” Frypan pushed.

“Get them out of here and get them back to work or to healing. We don’t have time for klunk like this, not from our leaders.” Clint said, crossing his arms and resting them on his knees.

“I agree with all of you, honestly. They need to be punished but given the circumstances of everything that happened I don’t think it needs to be too harsh. So, unless you three have anything to say for yourselves?” Frypan said, opening the floor to the three on trial. Alby shook his head, looking down, ashamed of himself.

“Bloody hell, I’ve got to say it even though I know I’ll never live it down,” Newt said, head in his hands. “If I hadn’t gone into that buggin’ Maze, we all know that Tommy and Minho wouldn’t have made it out again. Are we _really_ goin’ to punish me for savin’ their lives?”

Thomas was shaking with how hard he was trying not to laugh. Newt was such a hypocrite, and Thomas had never felt more vindicated in his life. If they put Newt in the Slammer, Thomas had every intention of enjoying every second of it. He would bet that the reason Newt had his head in his hands was because he knew that if he looked at Thomas right now he would completely lose his composure—Thomas had to admit, he was appreciating the role reversal here a bit more than was probably healthy. It was a balm to the absolute terror he’d felt when he saw Newt sprinting towards them inside that Maze, the fear that he wouldn’t be able to get Newt out on time.

For that, Thomas would allow himself to enjoy this, if only for a few minutes.

“I didn’t do anything wrong.” Gally maintained, his eyebrows waving on top of his forehead. “How else was I supposed to stop Alby from running in?! I didn’t exactly have a lot of time to catch him before I would have been running inside!”

Minho was having none of it. “Would you like a list?” He deadpanned, and Gally fell silent.

It was beautiful.

“Here’s my recommendation,” Frypan said. “Newt and Alby, you broke our shucking Number One Rule, so you each get one day in the Slammer. Gally? You attacked our leader, and you enjoyed it. Since attacking another Glader is a banishing offence, but you did it for good reason, you will get two days in the Slammer. Well, technically one more day since you already spent all of last night in there. Effective immediately. Votes?”

Every single hand in the room went up, including Thomas’s and Minho’s—Minho had abstained from giving a recommendation on account of the fact that he ‘felt faint’.

The meeting was dismissed, and Clint immediately ordered Thomas and Minho back to the med-jacks hut to rest and recuperate. But it was okay because while he was led away to the Slammer, Newt had looked at Thomas and given him a crooked little grin as if to say, ‘yeah, yeah, hypocrisy, I get it’—and Thomas’s heart had soared.

 

 

 

 

Newt couldn’t get over the absurdity of sitting inside the Slammer for the rest of the day with a grumpy Gally and a, most likely, concussed Alby for company. An entire day with nothing to do but be trapped inside his own head, a dangerous place, and lose himself in his own thoughts.

“Your boy Thomas enjoyed all of that _way_ too much,” Gally stated from his place in the corner.

Oh, no, please don’t start thinking about Thomas.

“He’s not my ‘boy’.” Newt said.

Alby snorted, but said nothing.

“Right, yeah, okay,” Gally said, chuckling, before settling in for a nap.

He wasn’t. Newt’s boy, that was. Yes, he was _his_ Tommy, but that didn’t mean that he was **his** Tommy. Not like _that_. The entire idea was ludicrous, completely unfounded. But that didn’t matter because Newt was absolutely not going to spend the entirety of this day thinking about Thomas. He wasn’t. He wasn’t going to think about the fact that Newt couldn’t stand to see Thomas in the Council Hall because that was the first time in _months_ that Newt had seen the man happy.

He wasn’t going to think about the amount of blood Thomas had given last night in his attempt to make as much of the cure as he possibly could, to try and protect Winston and any of the others who might not be immune. For Brenda, when they eventually would find her in the Scorch.

He wasn’t going to think about how worried he’d been when we walked into that hut to find Thomas lying there, pale and unconscious, looking so delicate and frail.

And Newt definitely, beyond a shadow of a doubt, was _not_ going to think about the fact that less than twenty-four hours ago, Thomas had been wet, shirtless, alone in a room with Newt and _touching him_ no less—and Newt hadn’t done a buggin’ thing about it. Not a single, bloody thing, other than yell at him.

But what he _really_ wasn’t going to think about?

Was how much he had wanted to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter feels choppy, to me, and forgive me for having both Thomas AND Newt's POV in here, but I had to. It was the only place to fit in Newt's freak out. Love you all!


	14. Whisper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has a part to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT.
> 
> Okay, it's come to my attention that most of the people reading this haven't read the books, and keep trying to compare whats going on here with what they remember from the movies. Which, please no. I've taken elements of the movie, but this is 90% book, guys. And so I guess I'll have to explain a few things so you guys don't get lost.
> 
> 1\. In the book, Gally vanishes for like 4 days after the Gathering over Thomas.  
> 2\. Thomas can speak mind to mind with both Teresa and Aris.  
> 3\. I haven't forgotten about Teresa, chick was comatose for several days in the book, and even after the first time she speaks to Thomas she still passes out again.
> 
> I think those are the only book relevant things for this chapter, but please if you guys are confused about stuff don't hesitate to ask. I'm sure some stuff that I've written must seem odd if you're basing it all off of the movies, and for that I apologize. I love you all, and I hope the background information helps!

“No. Go back to bed, are you bloody joking?”

Thomas closed his eyes and sighed, he knew that he should have just gone straight into the Maze instead of stopping by the Slammer to check in with Newt. Thomas had spent the entire day after the Gathering and the whole night in the med-jack hut being looked after by Clint and Jeff. He’d been fed numerous times, stuck on bed rest, and bored out of his shucking mind the whole time.

Minho had either been sleeping away his injury, doing his best to recover in the small amount of time they had available to them, or busy giving Thomas cryptic comments and increasingly weird life lessons. It was nice, though, in a way. It was a side of Minho that Thomas had never seen and it made his heart ache fiercely for the friend he’d left behind. He didn’t think that small ache would ever go away, nor would the uncertainty of if he’d left his friends with another body to bury or if that timeline simply ceased to exist. Whenever Minho has sensed Thomas growing melancholy he would launch into stories of the Glade coming together that Thomas had never been told before—there was never time—and would keep talking until he fell asleep again.

Sometimes Thomas would join him in sleeping, and other times he relaxed into the sounds of the large farm around him. This peace wouldn’t last for long, so he’d resolved to absorb as much of it as he could before turning their plan over and over in his mind.

After all of that rest Thomas had managed to convince Clint to allow him to go on a run through the Maze as long as he took it easy and promised to come back early, which he had no problem doing. He could manage everything that needed to be done in a few hours as long as there were no more Grievers roaming the Maze when they shouldn't be.

“Clint gave me the go ahead, Newt. I’m just gonna take it easy and come back early, nothing to worry about.” Thomas explained, looking down between the bars at the three inmates. They were all bleary-eyed and irritated—Thomas couldn’t blame them. He knew from experience that the floor of the Slammer wasn’t a comfortable place to sleep.

“You’re not a Runner, Greenie,” Gally muttered through his yawn. “Being allowed in for one day under supervision is one thing, but you’ve got to be elected in order to go on your own.”

“Shank was elected without us yesterday, wasn’t you Thomas?” Alby asked. He was curled in the corner, resting his head on the wall, and hadn’t bothered to open up his eyes.

“What? They can’t do that, can they?” Newt asked, looking quickly between Thomas and Alby.

Technically it hadn’t been much of an election, more Minho telling Jeff to round up the Keepers who _weren’t_ being punished and informing them that Thomas was going to take his place for a few days. It had seemed like Frypan was going to protest in the beginning, but eventually he just gestured vaguely with the spatula he’d been carrying and walked away. There hadn’t been a vote, per se. Just the tired nods of people who had bigger problems to worry about and their own specific tasks to get taken care of before their time was up.

Thomas shrugged. “More or less.”

Newt’s eyes narrowed, and he wrapped his long fingers around the bars and squeezed them tight. “Define more or less, I don’t trust that. That sounds like someone gave you wiggle room and you’re, quite literally, going to take it and run. Explain.”

Thomas wanted to give him a talking to about this continuing lack of trust, but given the fact that not two days ago Thomas had made a pretty monumental decision without consulting Newt first he didn’t really feel like he had much of a leg to stand on.

“Well, technically Minho called all of the remaining Keepers and informed them that I would be taking his place for a few days.” Thomas said. Newt stood there staring, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “He just didn’t specify what exactly I was replacing him as, and no one fought him on it or disagreed so…now I’m the new Minho?”

“They made you a Keeper.” Newt deadpanned. Alby started to laugh and Gally groaned in his misery.

“Not sure what they did honestly but Clint said I can go run… so… I’m gonna do that, if you’ll agree?” Thomas pleaded. He didn’t need Newt’s permission, and he honestly wasn’t sure what he would do if Newt said no. But he had to ask. Had to make things right with him and Newt again, become a team again.

It had been so easy before in the Scorch, in the City, to be completely in sync with their actions and movements. Fighting side by side, planning together, living in each other’s pockets. It was only in the Maze with their weird power structure and rules and the cameras everywhere that things got messy. They needed to fix it, quick, because Thomas didn’t think he could handle for Newt to look at him with disappointment again.

It was hard enough to remember to breathe when Newt looked at him with approval.

Newt’s eyes focused so intently on Thomas’s that they drew him forward a whole step before Thomas even realized that he was moving. Thomas caught himself and stilled, hoping that Newt didn’t notice, and gulped down his emotions. All at once the fight seemed to leave Newt and the tension drained from his shoulders.

“Alright, Tommy. Alright.” Newt muttered, and Thomas was overcome with the urge to do or say something that would put the spark back into Newt’s eyes again. “I s’pose it’d be too much to ask for you to be back by lunch?”

“If I’m to keep my promise not to overdo it, then I think back by lunch would be me pushing too fast, yes.” Thomas said softly, trying to reassure.

“Good answer. Get to it then and come back to us in one piece.”

Thomas nodded and turned away, needing to get away from Newt so that he could focus again, but Newt called out to him once more.

“And Tommy?” Newt said. “Thank you.”

Thomas smiled and nodded once more before jogging towards the Maze.

 

Running felt like moving his legs through wax and he wasn’t sure if it was because he was still sore or due to the blood loss. Either way his body needed to get it’s act together and get back into the shape he was used to it being in. With everything headed their way Thomas couldn’t afford to misjudge his current strength and endurance and then be the reason why everything failed. Again.

Every five turns or so that he made, Thomas would make a mark in his little notebook that he carried and chop down a vine so that he would be able to find his way back. He counted his steps, he memorized the path, he did anything he could to keep his mind from straying from the task at hand to thinking about Newt.

There’s only so much ignoring Thomas could do, though, before Newt came to the forefront of his mind and refused to leave.

He’d tried to tell himself that Newt was his best friend, that of course he was devastated by his loss—Thomas could have saved him. But his loss felt different. Felt like a hole, aching and deep, consuming Thomas from within. He couldn’t handle it. In comparison to that nothingness swelling from inside, the rest of the death they’d all suffered hardly seemed to compare. Not that it didn’t affect him, it just didn’t affect him the _same_ as Newt’s. They still mattered, they still hurt, but it didn’t feel like needles punching into his organs so that each and every breath taken without him was torture.

Thomas stopped for a break when he was feeling too winded and guzzled his water, relishing the way the wet coolness washed down his dry throat. He took a bite of his apple, letting the food and the slight breeze cool his sweating skin. He only paused in his run for about fifteen minutes before beginning again, and thoughts of Newt stole his concentration once more.

When it came to the way Thomas was so drawn to Newt, he was running out of excuses. At first it was the shock of having Newt alive and breathing in front of him; that inherent need to reach out and touch to make sure that he was real. Then it was because Newt was the only person who understood the enormity of the fight they were headed for, the only one who came from home and could share in the horrors they’d lived through. But now? It was liked once Thomas had started touching, he couldn’t stop.

He constantly wanted to be in Newt’s space, holding, grasping, pinning him with his eyes. Thomas didn’t understand it. Their connection. It had always been there, of course, but they’d never been granted the time to explore it. But it kept on building, with every day, and Thomas just wasn’t sure what the hell it was, or what it meant, or if Newt felt it too.

Large black lettering caught Thomas’s eye as he neared the Cliff. Thomas slowed to a walk, reached in and pulled apart the curtains of ivy, then stared at a square of metal riveted to the stone with the words stamped across it in big capital letters. He put his hand out to run his fingers across them, as if he didn’t believe his eyes.

**WORLD IN CATASTOPHE:**

**KILLZONE EXPERIMENT DEPARTMENT**

He read the words aloud and let the vines fall back into place. He adjusted his backpack over his shoulders and turned away, continuing his path to the Cliff. The plaque had successfully driven Newt from his mind, and Thomas missed his presence dearly. He briefly wondered what life would be like if it was Newt’s mind he had a telepathic link to, and not Teresa and Aris. How much would have changed?

Finally, Thomas found himself standing at the Cliff’s edge, glaring down at the depths.

He wasn’t sure what it was that he should be doing here, other than looking at though he was trying to figure something out. He already knew what the hole led to, but Thomas was trying to walk a delicate line here. He had to do _just enough_ that they could be believed when they said that Thomas figured out the exit—but not enough to have WCKD on alert for when they made their move.

Which meant that Thomas got to spend an hour staring at the Cliff and the area around it, as if he was attempting to puzzle something out, but to eventually leave looking clueless. He’d then spend forever in the map room and be seen trying to convince someone, anyone, that maybe the Cliff had something to do with an exit—but no one would listen. That’s the most Thomas could do, and he hoped it would work out for the best.

That’s the best any of them could do at this point.

So, Thomas pretended. He walked around in circles and measured paces and kicked at walls, he shook his head in frustration and stared down into that empty space at though it could hold the secrets of the universe—or if nothing else the secret to escaping the Maze. But, ultimately, he appeared to give up. He gulped down some more water and stretched out his legs and he left the Cliff behind, presumably defeated by the puzzle.

 

 

By the time Thomas made it back home, three hours earlier than the rest of the Runners would return, he was exhausted and in desperate need of a shower. Newt, Alby, and Gally had been released from the Slammer around noon, and things were supposedly returning to normal. There was activity everywhere, boys preserving foods and spices, preparing meats, gathering rucksacks and tidying the place up. Given the recent Griever attacks, it also seemed that one group of boys had been tasked with ensuring their weapons were in good working order.

All in all, just another ordinary day in the Glade.

Newt was deep in a meeting with the Keeper of the Sloppers, but Thomas was sure to catch his attention for a moment and let him know that he’d made it back. Newt’s relieved smile and nod were enough to give Thomas the energy to make his way to the showers. On his way there he passed Chuck, who only glanced at him and immediately glanced away, not attempting to make conversation.

Thomas’s heart sank, but he went after Chuck anyway.

When he moved in front of the pudgy kid, Chuck glared at him with burning eyes and opened his mouth to speak, but Thomas interrupted him.

“I meant it, every word, buddy. I promise. I just…--”

“I know you did, Thomas. I’m okay,” Chuck said, not unkindly. He even smiled at Thomas, and it was genuine. “You’re a good friend.”

And then he walked away, leaving Thomas uncertain of what exactly had just happened.

He mulled it over in the shower and was so lost in thought that he hadn’t even noticed that he wasn’t alone anymore—and when Gally cleared his throat to get his attention Thomas nearly jumped through the roof.

“Shit, Gally!” Thomas spluttered.

“Didn’t know you were so jumpy. Just wanted to catch ya where there weren’t any extra ears around.” Gally explained, but that didn’t really help Thomas to relax.

He reached for his towel and began to dry himself off, and covered up more out of politeness than any modesty. Living with 40 or so boys you got over the idea of personal space and privacy extremely quick. When he'd finished, Thomas looked over at where Gally stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the opposite wall.

“What’s going on?” Thomas asked.

“Nothin’, just. Can you go over a bit more _exactly_ what happened last time? Hadn’t I gone missing by now?”

That pulled Thomas up short. Gally actually had gone missing by this point, yet here he stood in front of Thomas, confused and uncertain.

“Yeah, you did.” Thomas agreed. “But it’s possible that because you aren’t actively against me and the others and didn’t storm off, you didn’t get taken? Has anyone else gone missing?”

“No,” Gally said. “We checked earlier just to make sure, but everyone is accounted for except for the Runners, but they won’t be back for about another hour or so. If one of them doesn’t make it back, then that’ll answer that question. But you don’t think that’s the case, do you?”

Thomas shook his head. “No, I don’t. That’s not their style. They’ll take conflict and use it but creating it out of nothing isn’t how they operate.”

There was a beat of silence before Gally spoke up again, tentatively. “Can I ask you a few more things about where you come from?”

Thomas settled in against the wall and prepared himself for a long conversation. “Go ahead.”

 

Thirty minutes later Thomas finally left the showers, no less confused than he’d been when he went inside them. Newt was waiting outside, glaring at Gally as he walked the opposite direction.

“What’d he want?” Newt asked.

“Nothing, just to talk about a few things he missed out on,” Thomas replied as vaguely specific as he could be. It took a moment before Newt understood, but when he did the glare left his face.

“Yeah, we discussed things like that earlier, just didn’t think he’d need further clarification, that’s all. How was the Maze?”

And just like that, Newt was back to normal. Honestly, as much as Thomas felt he know Newt better than anyone else on this planet, sometimes Thomas just didn’t understand him at all. Thomas was about to answer when a voice filtered in through his head. A girl’s voice. Whispery, sweet, confident. The last time he’d heard it, it’d been begging for Thomas to live.

_Thomas_

He reached out and gripped Newt’s shoulder, halting their walk. Thomas met his eyes and tapped Newt’s shoulder twice. Newt nodded and marched off quickly, his limp barely slowing him down, and when he reached the courtyard in front of Homestead he pulled out his machete and embedded it as hard as he could in the pole near the fire pit—high up, where everyone could see it.

‘Be ready’, it meant.

That handled, Thomas turned his focus back to the intrusion in his mind.

_Hello, Teresa._

He could feel her shock.

_You… Tom, you remember me?_

He smiled. _I remember a lot of things, Teresa. Now, don’t freak out on me._ He said.

 _I don’t understand. My memory is fading already, Tom. I won’t remember much when I wake up-_ she said, but Thomas interrupted her.

_Yeah, I don’t really feel like listening to all of that again. Things aren’t as they appear, Teresa. I know everything, WCKD is not good, and we are going to have a serious conversation about your loyalties. But for now? Just go back to sleep. You did this to them, to us. And it’s time to undo it._

The link went silent by the time Newt returned to his side and Thomas was grateful for it. Speaking mind to mind was always a bit painful.

“All good?” Newt asked, face concerned.

“Things are about to get really interesting.” Thomas replied, eyes on the machete gleaming in the distance.


	15. Drum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prepare the Masses

The two days after Newt threw his machete onto the pole were both tense and wildly uneventful. The machete told people to be ready, not that anything was going to happen instantly. The first day there was a flurry of activity as the Keepers kept up with their preparations, not letting the Gladers slack off in any way. To an outsider it wouldn’t seem like anything had changed except for the fact that things were cleaner, more organized, and that the Med-jacks were doing check ups on everyone in the Glade—Clint wrote it off as he and Jeff trying to find someone else to train to join their ranks.

Thomas still ran in Minho’s place, wandering the Maze and searching for a way out. He was sure to stop by the Cliff each day to glare at it and then to spend as much time in the Map Room as he could without going out of his mind with boredom. He could have sworn that last time everything had happened _so much faster_. It was like he hadn’t been able to catch his breath or rest at all, but now time seemed to be in ample supply.

So, they used it to heal. Thomas from his blood loss, and Minho from the same as well as the slice on his hip.

“How’s it feeling?” Thomas asked him that afternoon while he went through some exercises with Jeff.

“Hurts like hell, and the stitches itch more than I thought it was possible for something to itch like this.” Minho said. He grimaced while trying to swing his leg to the side in the motion Jeff was indicating.

Thomas chewed on his lip as he watched. Clint came up next to him and stood silently, watching Minho exercise and taking notes. “How soon will he be able to run?”

“Are you asking how soon he _should_ run, or what is the absolute earliest he can be putting any stress on that leg?” Clint asked, glancing at Thomas from the side.

“Both.”

Clint sighed and rubbed at his eyes with his fingers. “You realize I’m not an actual doctor, right?”

Thomas just stared at him and waited for his answer.

“Fine.” Clint said, looking through his notes again. “He _should_ be waiting at least another week before trying anything. The soonest he can do it anyway would be in about three days. Otherwise the most you’re getting from him is an exaggerated limp.”

Shit.

“Yeah, that’s not gonna work for me, I’m gonna need him to take his job back sooner than that,” Thomas said, doing the mental calculations over and over again, hoping to get a different answer but each time it was the same.

Clint grew tense beside him and tightened the grip on his pen.

“How soon, exactly?”

Thomas shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant but failing. “Tomorrow? Maybe?”

As if on cue there was a loud crash and some heavy cursing from Minho. He’d over estimated how much weight his leg could hold and promptly fell over—Jeff managed to half catch him, half collapse onto the wooden bench they’d been using. Minho’s face was a storm, dark and clouded, and it looked like he was ready to explode at the next available moment. Thomas knew that feeling.

“Guys you wanna give me and Minho a minute here?” Thomas asked. He reached out and took Jeff’s place supporting Minho and waited for the two med-jacks to clear the room before helping Minho to sit. After that he realized that he didn’t know what to say. He wanted to relate things back to experiences they’d shared but found himself going back to ones the boy before him would have no idea about.

“You’re gonna have to leave me,” Minho whispered softly and tears of shame burned his eyes. “I heard you talking to Clint. I’m not gonna be ready and you know it.”

“Not an option.” Thomas croaked.

“Thomas—”

“No!” Thomas snapped. “You don’t get it yet, but you will. No one, and I mean no one, gets left behind. It’s how we operate, how we function. And if we get separated, you know what happens?”

Minho’s eyes had widened at the yell, and for the first time he seemed small, vulnerable. It was how his Minho looked every day on that beach, lost without his friends and unsure of whether or not the price they paid was worth it.

“We burn the world in order to get each other back. Every time. We always have, and we always will. Now, I get it, you don’t actually know me that well yet, so you bet your ass I’m going to send Newt in here to talk some sense into you. But you _matter,_ alright? And when we eventually bust out of this shuck Maze, I’m taking every last shank trapped inside these walls with me. Understand?” Thomas asked. He stared Minho down until a bit of resolve showed in his eyes and he nodded his agreement.

“Good. Now rest up, Newt will come in just as soon as I can find him.”

“He’ll be with the track-hoes today,” Minho responded.

The fact that he wasn’t resisting Newt coming to check on him was just another disconnect from the Minho Thomas had known. It wasn’t bad, just odd. Foreign. What had happened to his Minho to keep him from readily accepting help that hadn’t happened to this one? What was the difference? Thomas pondered that as he made his exit and when he passed Clint the med-jack gripped his arm from a split second.

“We’ll figure something out, carry him if we have to.”

“Thanks, man.”

 

 

After he sent Newt off to check in with Minho, Thomas’s day was spent staring at nothing at all in the Map Room before lending a hand all across the Glade wherever he could. The oddness that had occurred with Chuck the other day had clearly passed, and the younger boy was now happy to talk Thomas’s ear off once again. He played with Bark to keep the dog out of Winston’s hair while he did something with the farm animals for about an hour and then later that evening he did his level best to keep his heart beating when he looked out across the fire and spotted Newt with Alby.

Laughing.

It was a full belly laugh, the kind that hunches you over and forces tears to spring from your eyes. Thomas was transfixed by the sight, the sound, of it. Newt’s entire face was designed to laugh, his voice was made for it, and yet Thomas could count on a single hand the amount of times he’d actually seen it happen like this. He couldn’t stop staring and his breath caught in his throat before Thomas laughed a bit on his own—it was that infectious.

“You look like you’ve never seen him do that before.” Ben said from where he sat next to Thomas.

He’d been so caught up in Newt’s laughter that he’d completely forgotten what he was saying to the guy, but he couldn’t find it in himself to feel bad about it. Ben sounded like he understood.

“Not often enough,” Thomas whispered. “Only once or twice.”

Thomas managed to force himself to look away after Newt caught him staring and raised his glass in Thomas’s direction with a wink and a grin. Ben was looking at him with sympathy.

“It’s alright. From what I know he hasn’t… uh, been in a good place? For the time that you’ve known him? Am I making any sense here?” Ben trailed off, he’d clearly begun to confuse himself.

Talking about time-travel without actually saying the words out loud was extremely difficult sometimes, but for the most part they all managed. “Yeah man, I understand.”

“Right, good. So, he hasn’t been in this good place, yeah? But you wouldn’t know it by looking at him. Not when he’s around you anyway.” Ben said.

“What do you mean?” Thomas asked. His skin started to tingle a bit at this sudden shift in conversation, and he felt a slight swooping in his stomach. Ben looked at him like he was insane.

“You’re joking, right? I honestly thought that you two…” When Thomas’s face didn’t fade from confusion, Ben stopped and laughed. He shook his head and took a swig of his drink. “Never mind then, buddy. You’ll figure it out soon enough.”

“No! Everyone keeps saying that!” Thomas groaned, throwing the stone he’d been fiddling with down to the ground in frustration.

“Let me guess, by everyone you mean Minho?” Ben laughed. When all that came from Thomas was a string of incomprehensible syllables, Ben apparently decided to have mercy on him. “Alright, listen. I’m gonna say one thing on it, and then I’m staying out of it, understand?”

Thomas’s nod was desperate. He had no idea why it was that Ben was so drawn to him, why he’d come to sit next to Thomas at the fire when he’d spotted him sitting alone, or why he was so easy to talk to—but if Ben was about to finally give him answers then he’d gladly worship the ground the Runner walked on.

“Newt? He doesn’t talk about emotions, but you know that already. But it’s written all over his face and in his actions. Especially with who he lets into his personal bubble. Like you. You practically live inside his bubble and he does whatever he can to keep you there. And if you weren’t so busy memorizing every detail of his face and instead took a step back to look at all of his face at once… well, you’d see that he’s busy looking at you like you’re the shucking Sun.”

There was a rushing sound in Thomas’s ears and his stomach swooped again. He’d heard Ben’s words but it was like they’d broken his brain. He couldn’t think, almost didn’t want to, and he had no idea what to say. Apparently not only had his own confusion towards Newt been written all across his face but if Ben was to be believed Newt was going through it too.

Thomas opened and closed his mouth several times with no sound coming out while he tried to formulate a response. He didn’t even have the brain power to acknowledge Frypan when he approached them from the direction of the fire.

“Ben what’d you do the break the Greenie?” Frypan asked.

“Just told him a few things that apparently no one else would,” Ben answered, his voice laced with mock innocence.

“Aw hell. Alright, let’s get this shank something to drink. He’s gonna need it.”

Thomas passed the rest of the night in the company of people he’d never really spent that much time with before—with the obvious exception of Frypan. He laughed with Ben and Dmitri, the name of the Glader who’d smiled and waved to Thomas that he’d never gotten to know; and watched as Gally wrestled with an extremely short fellow named Fynn.

Thomas spent the night enjoying himself, and whenever conversation lapsed he was sure to sneak a glance over at Newt. He was pleased to find that more often than not while Thomas snuck in his glances, Newt stared right back at him.

This discovery, paired with what Ben had told him, meant that Thomas was going to have to sort out what was going on in his own head sooner rather than later. But he knew the answer would be dangerous, and potent, and life changing—and because of this it deserved to be thought about at a time when Thomas didn’t have a thousand thoughts pelting his brain at every moment.

Before the twilight faded to blackness, Thomas was already in his favorite spot in the forest corner, curled up against the ivy, wondering what the next day would bring. He’d gone to bed early when most of the Glade was still up and active, he’d wanted the time to think. To mull over everything in his head once more. But most importantly he’d wanted to be alone just in case he’d done the math properly, in case tonight would be the night.

He was somewhere very close to sleep when a voice spoke in his head, a pretty, feminine voice that sounded as if it came from a fairy trapped inside his skull.

_Tom, I just—_

_Let me guess,_ Thomas interrupted her yet again. _You just triggered the Ending._

 _How did you know?_ Teresa asked, confusion and frustration evident in the tone of her mind-voice. Thomas just chuckled.

_See you in the morning, Teresa._

Thomas was calm when he left his sleeping bag and walked, leisurely, back towards the campfire. There must have been something in his gait that drew the eye because by the time he reached the pole near the fire pit the Glade had grown silent. Newt had seen him approach and was there at the pole to meet him. He didn’t need to ask what had happened; that Thomas had shown back up at the fire with a torch in hand told Newt everything he needed to know.

Told _all_ of the Keepers what they needed to know.

One by one they joined Newt and Thomas with their torches in hand, and as one they threw their torches into the Box and set the damn thing ablaze. With an ear shattering bang the small barrels of compressed flour that Frypan had set inside after Newt’s machete found it’s place on the pole exploded. The fire inside burned large and bright—the Gladers threw extra wood and fabric, and anything they had on hand into the Box to encourage the blaze with loud, raucous cheers.

To WCKD it would look like nothing more than the antics of drunken teenage boys who’d decided that since the Box wasn’t going to bring them any more supplies or people they should destroy it.

But the Glader’s weren’t drunk.

Although Gally had passed out what looked to be his famous moonshine, it was nothing more than honeyed water. And the Gladers knew this wasn’t a bit of revelry, they knew that this was their beating drum. Their signal for war.

They knew that tomorrow the Sun would not rise in the sky, that they’d open their eyes to a dull grey ceiling instead. The Gladers knew that tomorrow they would leave this Maze. That this blaze was the final signal, that tomorrow would mean war.

Thomas met Newt’s eyes through the smoke and the cacophony surrounding them and smiled.

Let the games begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case any of you are confused about what the hell is going on, don't worry. The next chapter will be a flashback that will shed light on a few things.


	16. Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minho clapped his hands, rubbing them together. “Alright, Greenie. Let’s plan a War.”
> 
> Thomas looked at Newt, and they smiled.  
> ~~~~  
> Flashback to immediately after Chapter 5.

“How are we going to get any of the Gladers to go along with this?” Gally asked. “I mean yea, they trust us, but asking them to do however many crazy things for no reason is a whole other level.”

Newt thought on that for a moment, thinking over everything he knew of the Gladers and how they operated. It was possible that they could release the details as needed? Or bring a few more people into the fold and give them everything so they could help to move the group along. But—

 “We tell them,” Thomas said. “We tell all of ‘em. We tell everything, the whole plan, every detail, every way it could go wrong. That way they’re prepared.”

For the third time that morning the entire room fell into silence.

Newt felt his eye twitch when Thomas looked up at him, and he could feel that his mouth had fallen open. “Tommy, have you gone out of your bloody mind?!”

“Newt, listen, hear me—”

“Just telling the Keepers was a risk and you want to go and inform the whole Glade that due to the most banjaxed of circumstances this world has ever seen, we’ve come back from the future to save all their asses?” Newt demanded. He put his hand on his hip and used the other to keep his balance on the chair he stood behind.

“Yes.” Thomas said. He looked stubbornly at Newt and oh, lord help him, he knew that expression. It was the one that informed Newt that Thomas was about to spit out a plan that had any number of awful things that could go wrong with it.

“Tommy,” Newt said, begging for patience. “On a scale of one to ten, how much am I going to bloody hate this little plan of yours?”

A beat of silence, and Newt could swear that he could feel the others losing faith in them with every passing moment.

“Honestly? About an 85, but it’ll work!”

“Oh, good that. Go on then.” Newt’s voice was faint, and he had to sit back down in his chair.

“Hold on,” Winston interrupted. “Before we listen to this, is it even possible? I mean from what I understand we were lucky that there aren’t little spies in here right now, so how are we supposed to gather the whole Glade and tell them what’s up without ruining everything?”

It was a fair point, but Newt was willing to bet that Thomas would have an answer for it.

“The showers, the bathrooms. It’s the one place that WCKD never sends cameras.” Thomas explained.

See, there it was. A buggin’ answer for everythin’.

“So, what, we just catch everyone while they’re showering and surprise them with time travel?” Zart asked, though he sounded more thoughtful than disbelieving.

“You take them in groups. It’s a group shower, it’s not that weird. Each Keeper would take their own people and give them the low down…” Minho said. “Alright, I can follow that much. But is it necessary?”

Newt looked at Thomas only to find that the shank was already staring at Newt. His eyes were haunted, sad, and almost begging Newt to understand where Thomas was coming from. Problem was that Newt understood perfectly, he just hadn’t been sure it was worth the risk. But it was, wasn’t it? How could they live with themselves if they saw their friends die because they’d made the same bloody mistakes as they had the first time around? If they didn’t know anything about Cranks, or the Scorch, or how to defend themselves and survive out there... Newt sighed.

“It is,” he said. “Because otherwise we run the risk of people dyin’ all over again for things that could’ve been prevented if we hadn’t hoarded information.”

Newt met Thomas’s eyes again and was almost knocked back by the force of the gratitude and respect inside them. They were in this together, he and Tommy. They’d better start actin’ like it or the whole damn mess would fall apart. Newt gave Thomas a nod for him to go ahead. Newt was listening.

“Right, okay, so we tell them. We tell them it all, what the Scorch is, how to survive, what Cranks are, who Newt and I really are. And then we tell them whatever plan we come up with here and convince them to go along with it.” Thomas said.

“Right…” Gally said. He was looking back and forth between Thomas and Newt and his eyebrows were doing that _thing_ where they judged you just for breathing. It was slightly unnerving. “Okay, so we tell them. What, exactly, is the plan then?”

“If we know the way out then why don’t we just leave?” Alby asked. A murmur of assent travelled throughout the room and even Newt had to hold back his nod. Generally speaking, leaving sooner rather than later would always be the best option to him.

“You really think that the people who sent us here would just accept that we’d suddenly, magically, gotten the answer to the Maze?” Minho asked. “No way. Not a chance. We’ve got to play their game, but play it by our rules, right, Thomas?”

“Exactly!” Thomas nodded. “We go through the same steps as last time, but we do it _better_. And then once we’ve done just enough to make our escape seem plausible we get the hell out of this place.”

It made sense, in an awful sort of way. Going through the motions, with everyone playing their part, would become increasingly difficult with the more people who knew what was going on—but it was doable. And if they could beat the clock WCKD would start…

“We beat their clock. The moment they sent you up in the Box it started tickin’, yeah?” Newt said. “So, this time we just get out of here before they’re expectin’ us to. Before they turn the buggin’ Sun off.”

Newt watched Thomas carefully; if you paid close enough attention you’d be able to see the entirety of his thoughts play out on his face, and it truly was a wonder to watch the way his mind worked.

“Then what’s next on the timeline?” Frypan asked.

“The girl,” Newt muttered. “She’ll be comin’ up today. And then it’s the Griever playin’ dead in that blasted Maze.”

“The one that stung me, right?” Alby asked.

Newt’s mouth twisted bitterly at the memory as he nodded. Nothing was the same after that happened, and he’d lost one of his best friends. He wished there was a way to avoid sending Alby into the Maze altogether.

“Yeah, about that, I think I should go instead of Alby.” Thomas stated.

That was _not_ what he’d bloody meant, god damn it.

“Absolutely not.”

“No.”

“How would that help?”

“You’re nuts!”

“Makes sense, you wanna do the thing with the Cliff again?” Minho asked. The bloody traitor was nodding his head as if this was the most natural idea in the world. Thomas nodded emphatically, and Newt needed to step in before this lunacy developed even further.

“I’m sorry, were you not just listening? You were bloody outvoted, you dumb shanks. It’s not happening.” Newt said.

“You think I want anyone risking their shuck neck for mine? No way no how, Thomas.” Alby stated. His face was a glower, though Newt could tell the man was afraid. They were talking about the string of events that led to his death the last time. There was no way that any of this was easy on him. Hell, none of it was easy on any of them, but at least they had a bit of warning.

“Alby, I get it, I do,” Thomas said. “But the last time around Minho and I managed to take out four of these things, okay? Now, I remember every single move I made before. I’ve fought those things before and _won_ , alright? The chances of Minho and me getting out of there alive and not stung are so much higher than if you go.”

Newt despised, utterly despised, how much sense that made. No one said anything, and Newt could feel his blood pressure start to rise a bit, when Thomas turned his attention on to him.

“Newt, do you _really_ want to run the risk of us all being locked in that Maze overnight again? If we do this during the day, then it’s Minho and myself against one Griever. If we do it the old way, then it’s the two of us against four and that’s _after_ I drag Alby up the shucking wall and tie him up with vines.”

Gally was nodding, but he didn’t look happy about it. Minho was firmly on Thomas’s side with this, clearly, but the rest of them seemed undecided.

“Minho why are you for this?” Zart asked.

“Simple. If I’m gonna go up against a Griever, I wanna do it with the guy that’s already fought some of them. No offense, Alby.” Minho answered.

Newt could feel the tide turning in Thomas’s favor and he didn’t know what to do about it. Under absolutely no circumstances did he want Thomas to go anywhere near that Maze until they were escaping the dratted thing. Living through it all the first time was enough, thank you very much. But for once Thomas’s idea seemed to be founded in logic, not an inability to sit still for five bloody minutes.

“None taken,” Alby murmured. His head was down, dejected. “You’re sure you can get it done without hurting yourself? You’re sure?”

Newt watched as Thomas’s eyes met Alby’s with a look on his face that tended to terrify Newt more often than it reassured him. It was the one he’d worn when he declared war on WCKD—the one that said he would do what needed to be done, or he would die trying.

It was that second bit that had Newt the most concerned.

“Then you go on instead of me and trick the Griever into goin’ down the Cliff. Then what?” Alby asked.

“Honestly after that, assuming we avoid anyone bein’ locked in the buggin’ Maze overnight, it should all be calm until Teresa turns off the bloody Sun and the world ends all over again.” Newt said. He worried at his lip between his teeth as he thought. The last time they’d run through the Maze they’d been dreadfully unprepared, the same as when they escaped into the Scorch. Not enough supplies, weapons, information. They didn’t even have the right clothes, or shoes.

“Minho, d’you think you could pass out running shoes to as many people as can fit them?” Newt asked.

Minho sat back and thought on it before shaking his head. “I can give it a shot, but I don’t have that many. Not even sure if we’ll have the right sizes. But what I _can_ pass out are runnie undies, watches, water bottles, running packs, all of it. I’ve got more than enough of all that to go around.”

“Good, yeah, that’s good,” Thomas said. “And that way we can bring things we’ll need and keep them prepped. WCKD never took our belongings the last time we went to the Facility, they just gave us new ones and since we didn’t suspect anything we never hung on to them. But this time... this time we can keep everything full and ready with supplies.”

The water bottles alone would be a life saver in the Scorch, provided they all started with a full one.

“So, we leave the Maze, get to the Facility when those guys grab us, and then what? How long do we stay there?” Gally asked. He was sat on his favorite chair, backwards, with his arms crossed along the back of it.

“As long as it takes for us to convince Aris to get us the hell out of there, we’ll need him in order to link back up with the Right Arm—unless we can get them to take us to Mary.” Thomas answered.

“Hold up, who’s Mary?” Frypan asked.

“Leader of the Right Arm, along with Vince,” Newt said. “She used to work for WCKD before she defected, and Thomas was her informant before he got sent up in the Maze.”

Mary. If they could prevent Teresa from betraying them all again, which Newt doubted, then they’d be able to save Mary’s life. Memory of the long journey through the Scorch to track down Minho flooded Newt’s brain; the entire time Vince had been desolated, a broken man hanging on to life by a thread of rage and fire. Briefly Newt wondered if that was what life had been like for Thomas at the Safe Haven, before he’d been sent back.

Newt vanished the thought almost as soon as he’d come up with it.

“So, you didn’t betray us? Or you did?” Zart asked Thomas. “I’m starting to get confused again.”

Thomas sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “I worked for WCKD, and then I betrayed them to try and get everyone out of the Mazes, and then I was sent up in the Maze with my memory wiped. I’ve only got bites and pieces now from what I can remember from when I stung myself with a piece of Griever.”

Silence, again.

“I thought you said you _didn’t_ get stung, and that’s why you’re going into the Maze instead of me?” Alby demanded.

“Slint head never got stung _by_ a Griever. He did it to himself. We needed the memories in order to figure out the Maze so one night while they attacked the Glade, this idjit went out and stung himself. Haven’t let him out of my sight since.” Newt explained.

Everyone in the Council Hall took a moment to stare at Thomas like he was mad, which he was. He honestly was, but it was a deliberate sort of madness that wrapped you up inside it—and once you were there, you never wanted to break loose.

“It was _necessary_!” Thomas protested.

“Quite.” Newt said, dismissing him.

“I think we’ve gotten off track. What all needs to be done for us to prepare, again? Just, not die until the Sun goes out?” Winston asked.

Newt chewed on his lips some more. The timeline was difficult, but if they did every correctly then they could honestly be out of this Maze nearly a week before they’d made it out the first time.

“Tommy, you get with Minho and make sure he knows exactly what to do in the Maze with the Griever. We’ll handle the rest,” Newt decided.

Thomas nodded and immediately moved towards Minho, mind clearly focused on the task. It was amazing, truly, the fact that on a regular day Thomas’s mind could be all over the place but the moment you give him something to do, something _important_ he attacked it with a singlemindedness that was deadly and refined. Newt was constantly amazed by Thomas’s mind.

“What do you need from us, Newt?” Alby asked.

Right, planning. Time to focus.

“First thing? Inform everyone of the reality of the situation, get them on board.” Newt said. “And it’s all about supplies, really. Get the packs from Minho, the water bottles. Frypan anything you can manage that we can tuck away and save without it going bad. Weapons! We’ll need weapons and need them all to be within easy reach and in good condition too. While we’re hoping that leaving early will catch WCKD off guard, we still have to be prepared to face a Griever army.”

“What about the animals?” Winston asked. “We can’t just leave them here to die.”

Newt spared a moment to feel guilty about the fact that that was exactly what had happened last time.

“Do whatever you can to set them up to exist without us, Winston. Especially Bark. And I can pack up plants that are edible, and useful. You said the Scorch was like a desert? I can get the track-hoes bottling up as much aloe as we can get our hands on.” Zart said from the back of the group.

“Perfect! And we’ll get Clint to bag up and pass out as many medical supplies as we can carry, we’ll need them. Focus on small things, stuff that can be easily missed or passed over,” Newt said, speaking as he thought. “I want everyone to have some kind of dagger on them at all times, so if we need to make more, Gally, that’s on you.”

“Easily done. I can make some small ones that we can all hide in our wristbands, so that way no one will even check for them.” Gally said.

“Honestly other than that it’s just making sure that everyone can carry on as normal until it’s time to go, there are spies everywhere. We can’t risk anyone letting something slip. When we get the first signal that the Ending is coming, I’ll use our standard warning of trouble on the pole.”

“And for the second? When are we actually going to make our break?” Alby asked.

“When the Sun goes out. The day the Sun dies is when Teresa will wake up, so we will all be mobile. That’s the day we run.” Thomas said. He and Minho had finished their planning, though Newt would want to iron out all of the details a bit more. “She warns me of the Ending at night, so it shouldn’t be a problem for everyone to go for their weapons and bags immediately after wake up.”

“And what of the second signal? We can’t just have everyone wake up to no Sun in the sky, they’ll freak out even if we tell them about it days beforehand. They’ll need another warning. Something good.” Gally said.

Newt glanced about the room for ideas and caught Frypan smiling. Newt raised his brows in silent question.

“You said that Box won’t be of any use to us once the girl comes up, right?” Frypan asked.

Both Newt and Thomas nodded. Frypan smiled.

“Then I know _exactly_ what the second signal will be. We’re gonna have War Rally, but WCKD won’t know that. Gally, you remember the time you made that honey water and tricked us all the first time you made your moonshine with it?” Frypan asked.

“Yeah, why?”

Newt thought he understood where Frypan was going with this. “You want us to put on a show, don’t you?” he asked.

Frypan shrugged. “Might as well, right? Besides, if this place is about to go to hell, we might as well have some fun with it.”

Newt smiled. There were still a few things they needed to work out, the specifics and timing, but they had a plan. A real one. They were going to break out of the Maze, and this time?

This time they would do it all together.


	17. Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas learns something about Teresa, and the Gladers make a break for it.  
> ****SPOILERS FOR THE FEVER CODE******

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY SHIT GUYS IT'S BEEN A MONTH SINCE THIS STARTED!
> 
> Happy one month!
> 
> Okay, so I spoil something major about Teresa from the Fever Code in this chapter, and just remember that if something seems wonky it's because this chapter is heavily based on the book (except for all I changed of course)
> 
> It get's a little bloody at parts, but it's canon typical violence so you should all be fine.
> 
> happy reading, and thank you all for the support!

Thomas awoke to a weak, lifeless light. His first thought was that he must’ve gotten up earlier than usual, that dawn was still an hour away. But then he heard the shouts. And then he looked up, through the leafy canopy of branches.

The sky was a dull slab of gray—not the natural pale light of morning.

He jumped to his feet, put his hand on the wall to steady himself as he craned his neck to gawk toward the heavens. There was no blue, no black, no stars, no purplish fan of a creeping dawn. The sky, every last inch of it, was slate gray. Colorless and dead.

He looked down at his watch—it was a full hour past his mandatory waking time. The brilliance of the sun should’ve awakened him—had done so easily since he’d arrived at the Glade. But not today.

He glanced upward again, half expecting it to have changed back to normal. But it was all gray. Not cloudy, not twilight, not the early minutes of dawn. Just gray.

The sun had disappeared, right on schedule.

 

Thomas found most of the Gladers standing near the smoldering remains of the Box, pointing at the dead sky, everyone talking at once. Based on the time, breakfast should’ve already been served, people should be working. But there was something about the largest object in the solar system vanishing that tended to disrupt normal schedules—even though you’d been warned about it happening.

From the looks he received from about half the Gladers it was clear that although many of them probably hadn’t initially believed the story about time travel, they sure as shit did now. 

Chuck found him, and the look of fear and awe on the boy’s face pinched Thomas’s heart.

“For the record, I believed you before this.” Chuck said, a pitiful tremor in his voice, his eyes glued to the sky. Thomas thought his neck must hurt something awful. “Looks like a big gray ceiling—close enough you could almost touch it.”

Thomas followed Chuck’s gaze and looked up. “Yeah, makes you wonder about this place. It’s interesting though, definitely something we will have to look into more.”

It took Chuck a moment to understand what Thomas meant, he tore his gaze from the ceiling long enough to squint at Thomas, before his face cleared with understanding. “Oh! My bad!” Chuck cried, before covering his mouth and running away.

Maybe Newt had been right and telling everyone had been too great a risk; they still had to pretend after they escaped this place, would be stuck pretending until they were into the Scorch and free of all cameras.

From the corner of his eye Thomas saw the group of Runners approaching him. As the replacement Minho, no one went into the Maze with Thomas’s say so, which was extremely convenient given the fact that Thomas _needed_ for no one to go into that Maze before they all went as a group. Otherwise they’d see a Griever go directly into the hole off of the Cliff and from that moment on all bets were off as to whether or not WCKD would be expecting them.

Thomas motioned for Justin and Ben to come over and gave them strict instructions. “No one goes into that Maze until we figure out what the hell is happening, good that?”

“Good that, Keeper.” Ben said, before he winked, honest to god winked, at Thomas.

He then continued to pass the order around to the rest of the Runners, along with the order that none of them were to bother Thomas with questions, either. Thomas was beyond confused and looked at Justin, hopefully for some sort of explanation. Justin shrugged.

“I dunno man. Shank came back from his Sting and started singin’ your praises and tellin’ us all you’re not crazy—and fighting anyone who disagreed. If I didn’t know he was in love with Gally I’d think he wanted you, but.” Justin shrugged again before walking off.

Thomas felt like he’d learned more in that small conversation than he’d ever wanted to about Gally. Though, when he thought about it, it did a lot to explain the differences between the Gally of his timeline and the Gally of this one. Before, Gally had been forced to banish Ben because of Thomas, whereas this time Thomas had saved him. Put like that, if Gally felt the same way about Ben? It pretty much explained every interaction the two men had ever shared.

A moment was all he could spare for his heart to ache for Gally before Thomas was forced to move on to his next task, although Thomas did spare a second to wonder whether or not he and Gally would have ever gotten close enough for Gally to talk to him about it himself, if Thomas had stayed.

He guessed he would never know.

A commotion outside the Homestead shifted their attention away form the conversation. A group of Gladers stood at the front door of the house, shouting to be heard over each other. Chuck was in the group, and when he saw Thomas and the others he ran over, a look of excitement spread across his face. Thomas knew exactly the words that would come out of his mouth.

“What’s going on?” Newt asked from somewhere to Thomas’ left.

“She’s awake!” Chuck yelled. “The girl’s awake!”

Noise travelled throughout the Glade at an alarming rate as Chuck’s words were repeated over and over again.

“Awake, huh? Well that ought to make things interesting,” said Minho.

Minho. Minho who was out of the med-jack hut and out and about with the Gladers; he was standing using a complicated brace that involved the active help of both Clint and Jeff on either side of him, balancing him out and taking most of his weight themselves. There were straps and poles of wood involved that Thomas couldn’t even begin to understand the purpose of, but what mattered was that it worked.

“Bloody hell,” Newt said. He moved forward to admire the hardware. “Gally come up with this?”

“Gally, Clint, Minho, and me,” Jeff explained as he adjusted a strap. “Got tired of listening to this shank whine all the time—we’re gonna take him out to show him the new lack of sun in the sky.”

Which was code for ‘get Minho’s ass as close to the Maze as possible so it’s less running we’ll have to do later’, and Thomas heard it loud and clear. A hand tapped his side and Thomas turned to see Newt offering him one of the mint leaves he always chewed on from a very large pouch on his hip.

“How do you never run out of these?” Thomas asked, though he accepted the leaf gladly.

“They grow all over the Glade, in case you hadn’t noticed. I just happened to pick… er, all of it, yesterday.” Newt said.

The slight blush on his cheeks made Newt’s eyes glow brighter, and wow Thomas really needed to find something else to focus on, immediately. Right on cue, Teresa’s voice sounded within his mind.

_Tom, I don’t know any—_

_Yeah, yeah, hold on, I’ll be there in a second._

_No, you don’t understand!_ Teresa said, irritation and frustration thick in her tone. _The Maze—_

 _Yes, it’s a code, **I know**. _ Thomas said. _Now shut up and give me a minute._

“You alright, Tommy?” Newt asked. “You look like you’ve got a bit of a headache, there.”

Thomas sighed and wiped a hand down his face before he tapped his fingers at his skull and motioned towards Homestead. “You’re not wrong there.”

The skin around Newt’s mouth tightened in his frown, but he nodded. “Alright then, let’s go and talk to her.” Newt had barely taken a step before Thomas stopped him and motioned for him to stay back with a shake of his head.

Newt’s face went blank and his eyes narrowed, going cold, but he didn’t fight Thomas’s decision. Later Thomas would explain to him that it was only because he wanted to speak mind to mind, that way he wouldn’t have to worry too much about cameras, but Newt limped away before Thomas had the chance to do it there. One frustrated sigh later and Thomas made his way into Homestead and towards Teresa.

She looked so different—cleaner, less terrified, _alive_ and not falling to her death. She wore a long-sleeved white shirt, blue jeans, brown shoes, and a scowl on her face. Black hair framed the fair skin of her face, with eyes that snapped blue fire at Thomas.

“How do you remember me?” Her voice was soft, but hard. A contrast from the crazed, broken sound he’d heard form her when she was screaming, loading him onto the Berg. Thomas tried to hold onto the positive memory of her saving him, the knowledge that she _could_ be redeemed, provided he was wrong about a few suspicions he had.

 _How do you know that I shouldn’t be able to?_ Thomas asked. He then gestured to their heads before adding. _And, please, only speak up here. I don’t feel like dealing with eavesdroppers._

Teresa’s eyes grew wide with shock and fear and a sickened feeling churned in his gut, had been churning ever since Thomas had been sent back to the Glade and forced to go over every single decision he and every other person had ever made. And when he had? A few things about Teresa just… didn’t add up.

That she hadn’t lost _all_ memory before she’d even been put inside the Box.

How casual she was upon awakening, how she’d known _exactly_ where she could find Thomas in the Glade, and how to get there.

How separated she’d been from them the moment they reached the Facility.

Her willingness to go back to WCKD.

The way she’d just been able to _sense_ that Newt was sick.

All of it added up to a picture that made Thomas want to vomit, if he was correct.

 _Tom…_ Teresa’s voice was slow, hesitant, as though she was trying to figure out exactly how to play the situation. _I thought that was the plan? We come up to the Maze without getting the Swipe, we get them out of here._

It took every ounce of self-control Thomas had to keep his face from showing the maelstrom that was inside. He could feel his insides wiggling with disgust and rage; a deep, echoing silence rang throughout Thomas’s skull. He didn’t know what to do, what to say. He hadn’t expected to be proven right, he hadn’t. Not at all. It was filling his brain with two conflicting images that Thomas had no idea what to do with—the one of Teresa, proud and regretful falling to her death after saving Thomas and _supposedly_ trying to save Newt.

And the image of the woman before him, who had her memories.

The whole time.

She’d had them.

The.

Whole.

Time.

She’d known how to get them all out of the Maze without losing so many. She’d known the Facility was a hoax. She’d known that—

The breath seized inside his lungs and froze there, stabbing and scraping because _she’d known that Newt wasn’t immune_ and didn’t help them, warn them, help to get him serum. She had known it all, and had done nothing, until it was too late for any of it to matter.

He had to keep his cool, he had to play his part, especially now that he knew she was withholding more information.

 _Then why were you acting like I didn’t have my memories?_ Thomas asked, almost afraid to know the answer.

_Because, Tom, you came up here and I was watching. You acted like you’d forgotten everything! I thought that Dr. Paige had gone back on her word!_

_Which begs the question, Teresa, why would Ava betray me… and not you?_

Teresa’s mouth dropped open, and she clearly didn’t know how to answer. Thomas almost felt a bit of sympathy for her, almost.

“I-I don’t—” she stammered.

 _Ah ah ah, up here only, remember?_ Thomas chastised. Immediately he knew two things. The first being that under no circumstances could Teresa be trusted with the truth, or with anything. And the second that is Newt ever found out that Teresa knew everything the entire time there would be no way for Thomas to prevent Newt from killing her; which Thomas couldn’t allow, because she could still be useful.

And because in the end she had saved his life and given him the key to saving Newt this time around. For that, she got to live.

_Tom—_

_Call me Thomas, please. And I think we both know the answer to my question, don’t we?_

There was fear, real fear, in every line of her face now.

 _Thomas, please, I’m sorry! But this work is so important, you **know** that! _ She argued, trying to defend herself.

_Okay, I’m done and we’re on a time limit. Long story short? Ava doesn’t know I still have my memories. And if you were ever my friend? You’ll keep it that way. Pick your side, Teresa. You come with me and we get the Gladers out of this hellhole and onto the Facility, or you stay here and hope your precious ‘Dr. Paige’ saves you from the Grievers._

_Wait, you’re still taking them to the Facility?_ She asked, shocked.

 _For now, yes. Though why you think I would tell you anything past that I have no idea._ Thomas answered.

Thomas stood up and moved to leave the room when Teresa leapt up from her position on the bed and nearly tripped all over herself trying to move after so long. “Wait! I’m coming with you. I want to _help_.”

 _Yes, but help us? Or them?_ Thomas asked her.

A shaky sort of resolve entered her face, though she was still uncertain. _I… I don’t know._

_Teresa, that’s the most honest thing you’ve said all day._

When Thomas exited the Homestead, Teresa in tow, it was to find that all of the Gladers had gathered in a group near the West Doors, some laughing and playing, some still staring at the sky, others mock-fighting with weapons, anything to make the odd Gathering not raise any alarms to the beetle blades they knew would be watching.

“Everyone? This is Teresa. Teresa? This is everyone. You’ll learn their names eventually.” Thomas’s introduction was short, though he kept Teresa close to him. All of the Keeper’s were close together, waiting for the go ahead from Thomas as to how to greet her, but Thomas shook his head and tapped on his weapon. ‘Tell her Nothing’, it meant. Thomas didn’t have time to react to the shock on Newt’s face- the morning had gone on long enough already.

“Welcome to the Glade, Greenie. No time for introductions, big day today. But we’ll get you spun up later.” Alby said as he shook her hand.

The whole time. She’d known the _whole time._ He couldn’t get over it. Thomas left Teresa with the Gladers and took his place at Newt’s right side. The two shared a long, charged, look—charged with what Thomas honestly wasn’t sure at this point—before Newt nodded and began.

When everyone was quiet and paying attention, he spoke. “There’s fifty-one of us.” He pulled the backpack he was holding onto his shoulders and hoisted a thick wooden pole with barbwire wrapped around its tip. The thing looked deadly. “Make sure you’re got your weapons. Other than that, isn’t a whole lot to buggin’ say—you’ve all been told the plan. We’re gonna make out way out of here, and Tommy here is gonna work his magic, and we’re gonna get some payback. Simple as that.”

“Shouldn’t someone give a pep talk or something?” Minho asked from where he was strapped between Jeff and Clint.

“Go ahead,” Newt replied, a wry grin on his face.

Minho nodded and faced the crowd. “be careful,” he said dryly. “Don’t die.”

Thomas couldn’t help his small laugh, despite the situation.

“Great. We’re all bloody inspired,” Newt answered, then pointed over his shoulder, toward the Maze. “You all know the plan. After three years of being treated like mice, today we’re making a stand. Today we’re taking the fight back tot eh Creators, no matter what we have to go through to get there. Today they’d better be scared.”

Someone cheered, and then someone else. Soon shouts and battle calls broke out, rising in volume, filling the air like thunder. Thomas felt courage and fear rise up inside himself—he grasped onto the courage, clung to it, urged it to grow. Newt was right. Today they’d fight, and hopefully all their careful planning would work.

Thomas was ready. He roared with the other Gladers. He knew they should be quiet, not bring any attention to themselves, but he didn’t care. The game was on.

Newt thrust his weapon into the air and yelled, “Hear that you Fuckers! We’re coming!”

And with that, he turned and ran into the Maze, his limp barely noticeable. Into that gray air that seemed darker than the Glade, full of shadows and blackness. The Gladers around Thomas, still cheering, ran after him—even the awkward trio that was Clint, Jeff, and Minho. Thomas followed, falling into line next to Ben, Gally, and Chuck—hefting a long and sharp machete. The feeling of responsibility for his friends overwhelmed him—made it hard to run. But he kept going, determined to win.

 

Thomas kept a steady pace as he ran with the other Gladers alone the stone pathways toward the Cliff. He’d grown used to running the Maze, but this was completely different. The sounds of shuffling feet echoed up the walls and the red lights of the scrambling beetle blades flashed more menacingly in the ivy—the Creators were certainly watching, listening, and hopefully freaking the fuck out.

The group was spread out across the full width of the corridor, running at a steady but quick pace—Thomas wondered how long Minho could hold up, though every time he glanced he didn’t see any sign of strain from him or his helpers. James, who ran behind them and to the left of Thomas, kept stumbling over his own feet. Those Gladers not used to running long distances were gasping in huge gulps of air- but no one quit. On and on they ran, with no signs of Grievers. And as the time passed, Thomas let the slightest trickle of hope enter his system—maybe they’d make it before getting attacked. Maybe.

Finally, after the longest hour of Thomas’s life, they reached the long alley that led to the turn before the Cliff—a short corridor to the right that branched off like the stem of a plant.

Now was the moment of truth.

But Thomas heard no sign of Grievers awaiting them, and when they rounded the corner, the corridor was empty—no army of Grievers in sight.

“Keep going, Tommy! Keep going!” Newt yelled from somewhere to his right, where he was helping to steady Dmitri.

They were 200 meters from the edge of the Cliff, when Thomas heard it. Griever sounds, though they sounded frantic, scrambling, as though they hadn’t had enough time to load up properly and get into position.

As though they’d been completely caught off guard.

“Don’t stop!” Thomas shouted at the Gladers who’d nearly face planted once the sounds echoed off of the walls. From the corners of his eyes, Thomas could see the Grievers racing towards them, but they wouldn’t get there in time. They couldn’t beat them—not when the Gladers were only 100 meters away from the jump—

James moved in front of Thomas with a cry of victory and sprinted towards the ledge. He was about to jump when it happened. One second, James was there in front of him, alive, and the next his head was blown open like he’d been shot with a pistol, and the blade sticking out of his back made it look like he’d been stabbed straight through the heart.

Blood splashed everywhere when the Griever’s leg tossed him aside like he was a piece of garbage, and the Beast climbed onto the ledge in front of them. It had come directly from the hole—blocking their path.

Thomas’s heart stopped, everything stopped, time ceased to have any meaning. Not again.

Please, not again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that character is named after James Dashner. And yes, I did have it seem like he'd been shot in the head and stabbed through the heart, and then tossed away like a piece of trash.
> 
> James died in the two ways Newt died in this series.
> 
> Also, I have a lot of emotions about Teresa. If you couldn't tell.


	18. Leap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little less standing still, a little more action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight graphic description of blood and violence, but nothing too horrid.

Newt had forgotten how to breathe.

Thomas had been about to jump first.

It was five steps in front of Thomas, that was almost Thomas.

The blood that had spattered onto Newt’s face—hot and sticky—was almost Tommy’s blood.

The body slung aside like a child’s toy was almost Tommy’s.

After all of this, all they’d gone through, that was almost the end of it.

Twice Newt had been forced to endure this Maze and all of his little horrors, twice he had been granted the unnerving peace and comradery that could be found only in the Glade with it’s ignorance of the outside world. Twice he had planned, twice he had escaped. And now twice he would be forced to watch his friends die.

There was screaming coming from all sides and the grinding metallic sounds from the Grievers metal legs crawling ever closer echoed a deadly symphony in time to their screams, but Newt heard nothing. Nothing at all. His eyes were fixed on the spot that Thomas would have been occupying had James not gotten in the way.

His entire world narrows down to that spot and the feeling of blood slowly dripping down his chin.

His mind went quiet.

His heart stopped beating.

And then Newt’s vision flared red with blood and his entire existence roared to life with a screaming fury that he hadn’t known was coming from his vocal chords until his sight cleared and he was staring into the bulbous, pulsating face of the Griever he had just rammed his spear through. It was shoved clean through one side of the fleshy ends and protruded through the other in a bloody, goopy, mess. The stench stung his nostrils and made his eyes water, but he hardly noticed.

Newt dropped down from the large and spindly leg he’d vaulted onto a moment earlier with a wobbly thud, but he managed to keep his balance. Without further ado he ripped his machete from it’s sheath and used it like a baseball bat—the momentum from the sickening crunch of the connection of blade and flesh knocked the beast the rest of the way off of the Cliff where it fell to the side of the hole and continued its long descent. It hadn’t felt near as satisfying as he’d wanted it to be.

Newt’s chest was heaving, and his arms were aching, and his leg was throbbing be he _did not care_. They hadn’t come this far, done this much, just to be defeated now. Not after everything they’d gone through. So many of them had died once already, there was simply no more room in Newt’s heart for any more graves to be dug. The ringing silence in his head seemed to have grown quieter, but that was because the sounds of boys shouting had been cut off completely; and when Newt turned around it was only to find that every single Glader was looking at him as though he’d gone mad. Even Thomas was staring at him in a devastated kind of awe, but he wasn’t moving. Why weren’t they all bloody _moving_?!

“What the hell are you shanks waiting for?! _Get down the bloody hole!_ ” Newt screamed at them all.

But it was too late. The Grievers had just reached the back of the group and all hell broke loose.

The monsters moved forward, slowly, instrument-tipped appendages unfolding, pointed at the Gladers, ready to kill. Tightening their trap formation like a noose the Grievers steadily charged at them. And yet the Gladers stood still, whether it was out of shock or the abruptness of the plan going awry, and Newt was vibrating with tension and fear and outright _defiance_.

“They’re _coming_!” Teresa yelled. “We have to do something!”

For the first time ever, Newt agreed with her. As the first blood-curdling scream of terror emerged from the back of the crowd—Mike, that was _Mike_ who was just split into pieces and raining from the sky—he decided that inaction was no longer acceptable and darted forward to grab onto Thomas by his shirt and then yanked him forward.

For a heartbeat of time they were a hairsbreadth apart and Newt’s heart surged inside his chest, but he tamped it down, tamped down the want and the need and the awful thought that this might be his last chance because this was _not the goddamn time_. They were worth more than an ill explained heated moment on a battlefield, and he wasn’t even sure if Thomas felt the same way. There was blood on their faces and terror fogging the oxygen they breathed but for a moment Newt could have sworn he saw a glimpse in Thomas’s eyes of something that Newt felt deep inside himself, buried away and kept under lock and key. It was enough to give him hope, to give him a promise of something to be explored later.

And that would have to be enough.

“Enter the code,” Newt whispered; his heart was manic, his insides screaming because he was so close to Thomas that their mouths barely grazed each other when he spoke—it was a touch of lips so light that a traitorous part of Newt’s mind suggested that it hadn’t even happened—but he couldn’t, not now, not like this. “Get them out.”

It was nothing more than a pivoting motion—a burst of strength propelling his arms—Newt’s heart in his eyes, and he was able to pluck Thomas from the edge of that Cliff and thrust him into thin air, falling towards the hole.

The sounds of boys crashing into Grievers filled the arena, pierced with the screams and roars of machinery and wood clacking against steel. Chuck ran passed Newt, forced forward through the crowd by the older boys who’d been given one mission should there be a fight, get Chuck out. But Chuck hesitated by the edge, face frozen by fear and panic at looking down the Cliff and seeing nothing; so Newt threw the pudgy boy off of the Cliff as well, trusting that Thomas would be there to catch him.

War raged around them. Gladers fought, panic-induced adrenaline driving them on. The sounds echoing off the walls were a cacophony of terror—human screams, metal crashing against metal, motors roaring, the human shrieks of the Grievers, saws spinning, claws clasping, boys yelling for help. All was a blur, red and gray and flashes of steel; Newt tried not to look left or right, only ahead, through the narrow path that led to where Clint and Jeff struggled to get Minho out of the fray.

Maybe it was the look on his face, maybe it was that they’d all seen what he’d done to Thomas and Chuck, but somehow the Gladers all understood what was about to happen. Clint and Jeff removed themselves from the harness and shoved Minho forward; Dmitri materialized at newt’s side to help, and together they all but dragged Minho to the edge. He was limping forward desperately and though his leg buckled Minho did not allow himself to crash to the ground.

Step by step, just as Newt had told him yesterday.

It was clear that he was going to try and make the jump under his own power, but Newt didn’t trust it. Couldn’t trust the way that Minho couldn’t put any weight on his leg, couldn’t chance that he would miss the jump.

“If you shucks toss me off of that thing so help me God—”

Minho didn’t have time to finish his threat before Newt and Dmitri pushed him forward and he was forced to leap down into emptiness. Dmitri followed immediately after him, then Clint, then Jeff, and Newt was faced with the sight of Teresa screaming outrage at a Griever as it tried to rip Fynn from this world. Somewhere she’d found a spear and she was using it to claw her way through the mechanical beast from bottom to top. The moment she succeeded and pulled Fynn back to his feet, Newt gripped her by the elbow and dragged her to the Cliff’s edge.

There was no time to be conflicted about it, but she’d saved Fynn. If nothing else, Newt could understand the basic concept of ‘a life for a life’. Battle clashed on both sides of them. More Grievers came for them, more Gladers helped. Winston and Alby were standing side by side, fighting with bow and arrow, providing cover for those still struggling to make it forward from the rear line. Everywhere boys were whacking at Griever instruments with their makeshift weapons, jumping on them, attacking.

Teresa jumped with Fynn, and both vanished.

Someone had started using the vine ropes that the Runners and Track-hoes prepared to wonderful effect—they’d been braided with every last bit of metal that could be spared from the Builders and the kitchens so that the Griever’s sharp claws wouldn’t be able to cut through it as easily. Three Grievers were caught up together in it and in their fervor to free themselves, their crazed hacking at the rope, they ended up hacking up each other as well.

How much time had passed since Tommy had gotten down there? Had it taken this long for the Grievers to deactivate before? Battle had this way of both speeding and slowing time—reality blurred and seconds lasted hours.

Gally dragged Ben to the edge, both were crying silent tears and covered in visceral fluids, but then Gally’s mouth was on Ben’s and it was soft, but desperate, and Newt had never known jealousy could burn _that strongly_ ; not for a person, but for an experience.

“You know what you have to do,” Gally told Ben—Ben whose face faltered, but he nodded and kissed Gally harshly once more—and Newt was intruding on their moment, but his yearning wouldn’t let him turn away.

Ben reached out and took Gally’s spear before he leapt, Gally made a sound that was half-sob and half war-cry, and he jumped back into the battle raging around them.

Newt lost track of time, lost track of the number of Gladers they forced down the hole, but an eternity later there was a jolting silence. The Griever’s went still in the clearing, and those who had remained to fight stood around in shock.

He couldn’t help but laugh because they were still alive, they’d done it. Not without loss but as Newt looked around at the fallen it was easy to see that the Grievers far outnumbered the Gladers. Newt could only count the remains of 6 boys—not counting James—and though his heart hurt, he couldn’t stop the sob of relief. Guilt and shame flooded his veins but in the end all Newt could do was be thankful that they’d saved so many, when before this courtyard had might as well been a graveyard.

Thomas’s plan had worked.

No one had been left behind, no one had abandoned one another, no one had been stung. They were through the worst of it, they had to be, and that was _Alby_ standing there in front of him. Alby who dropped his bow and came over to grapple Newt into a tight bear hug.

Newt was shaking, he couldn’t believe it. This whole time he’d never wanted to let himself hope that Alby would make it. That any of those they’d lost would manage to get through this.

“I didn’t—” Alby choked out. “After all you guys said, I didn’t think I’d—”

Newt squeezed his friend as tightly as he could manage, and his thoughts barraged him from all sides. How much had their telling the Gladers of their previous fates mucked with their heads? What had it done to them? How could they have looked at their friends and informed them that they’d die so callously? In retrospect it all seemed cruel, but the reality of the moment it’d all felt necessary. Literally life or death. Perhaps Newt should cut he and Thomas some slack given all that they’d been through—they came from a place where time wasn’t something they’d had in great supply. It was do or die, and they’d both _died_ so how could Newt blame themselves?

“I’m sorry, mate, I’m so sorry,” was all Newt could manage.

It would be alright, _they_ would be alright.

“C’mon guys, lets go on down there before Thomas tries to climb back up that hole and drag Newt down there himself.” Frypan said. He was becoming almost as bad as Minho about all of this, but Newt couldn’t find it within himself to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is so short, I truly am, but it'll all be made up for in the next bit. Chapter 19 practically writes itself.
> 
> I apologize for not responding to comments lately, I've been pushing this fic so hard that I've not stopped to do much else--this story demands to be written. I will get back to you all as soon as I can, there is nothing I cherish more than your feedback.


	19. Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Puzzle pieces fall together with the worst possible timing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I pick and choose what I want to keep from the book and movie, fight me. I grab what I needed in order for things to go the way I wanted.
> 
> Enjoy.

Waiting was an impossible thing, even when time moved so quickly that it stood still. Entering the code and shutting down the Grievers took both an eternity and no time at all; but as the small room grew so full of boys that there was no longer space to move around in, every second was agony waiting for Newt to drop from the ceiling and join them.

As soon as they had a moment alone, Thomas had every intention of punching him for the stunt that he’d pulled.

The Gladers had spilled into the nearby tunnel because of the large amount of bodies, and each one was a sign of their victory. Last time there hadn’t been enough survivors to fill up even half of the room. Thomas was busy trying to count them when Alby dropped in from above. Newt came through then, followed by Frypan. Then Winston and others. Before long eighteen more boys joined Thomas in the tunnel, making the total something near 50. Every last one of those who’d stayed behind and fought was covered in Griever sludge and human blood, their clothes ripped to shreds. Some of them had lost their weapons or their supply packs, but that could be handled later.

“The rest?” Thomas asked, voice wobbling.

“Seven lost,” Newt said, his voice weak. “All else accounted for."

No one said a word then. No one said a word for a very long time.

“You know what?” Minho said, being forced back into the harness with Clint and Jeff. “Seven might have died, but the rest of us lived. And nobody got stung—we can do this. We’ve got to get out of here or it’ll all be a waste.”

 _Too many_ Thomas thought. _Too many by far._ It was a hard thing, to know that you’d done everything right, but you still couldn’t save everyone. Had they been people who’d died before? Or were these lives snuffed out too early because of what Thomas and Newt had done?

A traitorous part of his mind had relaxed the moment he’d seen Newt, no longer caring about the number of fallen as long as he wasn’t among them.

“Let’s get out of here,” Newt said. “Right now.”

“This way,” Thomas said. He moved further into the tunnel and began to retrace the steps from his memory. This time he went first instead of last and was the first to go down the slide at the end of the tunnel.

His body shot down a steep decline, slick with an oily goo that smelled awful—liked burned plastic and overused machinery. He twisted his body until he got his feet in front of him, then tried to hold his hands out to slow himself down. It was useless—the greasy stuff covered every inch of the stone; he couldn’t grip anything.

The screams of the other Gladers echoed off the tunnel walls as they slid down the oily chute. The farther down he plunged the more the smell turned from burned plastic to mildew and rot. He started gagging on his effort not to throw up on himself.

The tunnel began to twist, turning in a rough spiral, just enough to slow them down. Around and around he went down the tube. Nausea burned in his stomach—the squishing of the goo against his body, the smell, the circling motion. He was just about to turn his head to the side to throw up when Thomas launched out of the slide and landed flat on the ground. He leapt out of the way as quickly as he could because soon the Gladers followed after him; one by one they popped out of the slide, screaming and stinking and miserable.

Newt was the last down. Thomas wanted to go to him, to talk to him, to give him a black eye, to do _something_ but Ben chose that moment to notice the scene they’d stumbled upon and start to freak out about it. It was nothing Thomas hadn’t seen before, and it was made worse knowing that it was all fake.

“Thomas? Why are there dead people everywhere?” Ben said, his voice wooden. His red hair was matted with sweat, his face paler than usual. His eyes were bloodshot—he must have been close to one of the Gladers who’d died in the fight.

All around them were the ‘bodies’ of scientists and ‘members of the resistance’. They were staged perfectly. Everything about the scene made it seem as though a massive fight had occurred here, that WCKD had been taken by surprise, that the ‘Creators’ had been dealt with.

“Just… grab your weapons and keep moving, guys,” Thomas said. He reached out and grabbed for Chuck, keeping the young boy as close to him as he could. Chuck was so pale that his freckles looked alien on his face and his fingers were shaking around the knife he held far too tightly to be effective.

 _Thomas… This is all wrong, what’s happened?_ Teresa asked inside his mind.

He glanced over to where Teresa was trembling, looking out at all of the faces of people she’d been working with just a week or so ago. Was she faking? That couldn’t be it, not when she’d known that the Gladers would be going to the Facility next.

It was possible that she didn’t know the means used to get the boys there, but Thomas wasn’t so sure. He wouldn’t put it past her to be lying to him again; this wouldn’t be the first time that she’d feigned grief and terror and confusion. Would he ever be able to trust her again? Thomas felt eyes on him and searched them out—only to find that Newt had been watching him watch Teresa, and Newt’s face was closed off again.

Something in Thomas’s chest shriveled at the sight.

_I don’t know, Teresa. Just stay close and be on the lookout._

Soft murmurs and whispers flitted in and out of the group as they stepped over bodies in lab coats, bodies in rugged Scorch gear… innocent looking scientists and vicious men with guns, because everything was for show—why not make themselves look as innocent as possible?

It was only another few moments before they’d entered the control room and the Gladers got a good look at their lives from cracked monitors and blinking screens. In this room they saw themselves as WCKD saw them; rats in a cage. Subjects. Something expendable yet worthy of being studied. Ben was standing near the other side of Chuck, trying to keep the boy from glimpsing something a nearby monitor was showing. Whatever it was, it made Ben start to shake and look around the room in paranoia.

Clearly it was getting harder for the boys to all hide their knowledge of Newt and Thomas—they kept glancing at the monitors and then at their supposed saviors with a mixture of confusion, fear, and awe. Newt approached Thomas on the side opposite Chuck and made a beeline for the blinking screen that would play Ava’s message. Dr. Ava Paige; both a foe, and yet the lesser of two evils. It was hard to look at her in that video as she explained to them all the state of the world outside, and their role in it, without seeing her as he last had.

He’d been enraged then, content to let the world burn around him, and his memory was hazy with desolation. Newt was dead and nothing had mattered anymore, nothing except knowing whether or not he’d truly killed his best friend when there was still hope left in this world.

And he had.

It was with soft eyes that Thomas turned his gaze from Ava to Newt; he couldn't stop his hand from reaching out to grab from his, and despite the confused uncertainty on Newt’s face he didn’t brush Thomas’s hand away. Instead he held it gently and gazed down at their entwined fingers, while Thomas gazed at him.

Their life wasn’t perfect, but they had a chance here. They may have been grasping at straws but already they’d achieved so much more than they’d ever thought possible. Thomas thought about the Cure swimming through Newt’s veins, guarding him against the very air they breathed. Thomas wouldn’t allow himself to lose him again.

It was during this moment that the video ended with Ava shooting herself in the head. Thomas and Newt were the only two who didn’t flinch, because they weren’t paying attention.

In the noise of panicking Gladers, Thomas was forced to let go of Newt’s hand to calm everyone down and start directing them towards the doors. Any moment now they’d burst open to allow their ‘rescuers’ to carry them all away. Thomas was distracted thinking about whether or not they’d bring enough Berg’s to get them all out, when all hell broke loose.

 _Thomas! Look out!_ Teresa screamed, and Thomas’s heart stopped.

He nearly broke his head with how quickly he turned around—and upon seeing what lay in wait for him, Thomas shoved Chuck behind him and _forced_ him to stay there.

It was Gally, standing there, pointing the gun directly at Thomas—no. Not directly at Thomas. In fact the gun was quite clearly aimed away from Thomas by just enough that if it were to go off nothing would happen.

But this was wrong.

It was all wrong.

“We can’t leave,” Gally stuttered out, but his voice was _wrong_ for this.

Gally was jerking with silent sobs and tears flowed freely from his eyes, but his hand was steady holding the gun.

“What the hell are you doing, mate?” Newt asked, speaking the words that Thomas couldn’t find the breath to say.

Gally just shook his head. “I have no choice.”

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

“Did he get stung? _When did he get stung?_ ” was Minho as he struggled to break free from Clint and Jeff.

“Gally, man, now don’t—” Alby started, but he was interrupted.

“Quiet!” Gally screamed. He was crying harder now.

Thomas was looking Gally over from head to toe, searching for any sign of a sting, because this was **not the plan**. They didn’t need this, they would be fine, nothing important happened th—

All at once the puzzle pieces clicked into place. It had been there, right in front of their eyes, the whole time; but they’d all failed to see it. They had all been focused on the wrong things.

_“I’m on board for not killing the only shank in this stupid place that’s like a little brother to us all, annoying as he his, but if I heard you right the first time, didn’t you need me WITH the group of crazies so that you could sneak into the City?”_

_“Nothin’, just. Can you go over a bit more exactly what happened last time? Hadn’t I gone missing by now?”_

_“Can I ask you a few more things about where you come from?”_

_Ben trembling, pale, and holding Gally’s spear._

_Ben not letting anyone look too long at the monitors._

_Ben coming down the hole without Gally—had Thomas even actually seen Gally come down with the rest of them?_

Thomas started shaking his head, hoping he was wrong, hoping he hadn’t been so blind. He jerked his head over his shoulder to see that Ben was sobbing just as much as Gally was, but his face was determined.

Gally was trying to sacrifice himself for the sake of the timeline, and Thomas was an idiot. How had he not realized, when Gally’s questions had started to get eerily specific? Freely Thomas had given him information about the first timeline, how it had all worked, when who had gone where, what Gally’s role had been. But he hadn’t thought it was for this, never for this.

“Gally, no, we don’t need—”

“Yes, you do,” Gally choked.

People were confused now, and angry.

“Tommy, what’s happening?” Newt asked, his voice going up an octave.

“Aw, hell no, Gally don’t—”

“ ** _I can’t leave! And it’s all your fault!”_** Gally screamed. He cocked the gun and made ready as if to aim, but he didn’t get the chance.

A horrible sound that would haunt Thomas until his dying days came from the same direction that the spear flew from, and Thomas knew who’d made it. The spear sprouted from Gally’s chest just to the right of his heart where his armor was thicker.

Somehow, Gally had convinced Ben to send a spear flying at his heart.

Pandemonium broke out around them all, but the only thing Thomas could do was stare at Ben, who had collapsed to the ground and was looking at his hands in horror; like they’d betrayed him. Thomas knew that feeling. He knew it all too well. It was the feeling when you were convinced that the person you loved most in the world was dead at your own hands. The universe had a sick sense of irony in that it took watching another human being feeling what he’d once felt for Thomas to understand what it meant.

For him to understand what it was that he felt.

Now their path was set, they would take the path that would lead them to the Last City and hope like hell they would find Gally there. And if they didn’t then they would hunt him down and do whatever it took to get him back, to reunite him with the broken boy on the ground in front of Thomas, who was trying to ask a question.

“I-I, is, I-did, Gally, he-I…” Ben fought to get out through his heaving wails, but Thomas didn’t get a chance to answer.

The doors burst open and they were all being dragged away; the sudden noise and action allowed Ben to break from his stupor and launch himself at Gally’s body, screaming at it and trying to get it to breathe.

Images of himself cradling Chuck superimposed themselves over the image of Ben and Gally, and Thomas felt his heart shatter into a million pieces. Ben was begging, pleading, for Gally to open his eyes and Thomas made to run over and help but a strong hand on his shoulder stopped him.

It was Newt, crying, and shaking his head. “Don’t, Tommy,” Newt whispered. “Don’t waste his gift.”

Thomas allowed himself to be led away by Newt towards the army of Bergs and the world that lay ahead.

Ben’s shrieking got louder until it was silenced, and a spot on Thomas’s head echoed with remembered pain at how he knew they’d gotten Ben to quiet down. Sure enough, Ben’s unconscious form was dropped into the Berg right alongside Thomas and Newt.

Thomas had to look away.

Instead he focused on Chuck, on Alby, on the fact that they’d damn near needed a whole fleet of Berg’s in order to transport all of the remaining Gladers. Next to him, Newt held on to Thomas’s arm with a vice-like grip. His eyes were squeezed shut against the tears that were still coming—Thomas just allowed his to fall and soak his shirt, but he held on tightly to Newt as well, anchoring himself.

The Scorch was passing outside of their windows and all around him were gasps of horror, of wonder, and Thomas couldn’t but think of how appropriate it was.

Wonder and Horror.

Love and Loss.

Newt hid his face in Thomas’s shoulder as he cried and raged at the unfairness of the world. For Ben.

Thomas stared at nothing and vowed that it wouldn’t be a waste. Whatever lay beyond them, he had a date to keep—and he owed it to the man not to be late.

 

 

_“So how long would you say it was between when you shanks got out of the Maze and to the Last City?” Gally asked. His voice was too casual, but Thomas didn’t know him well enough to understand what it meant._

_“Shit, uh, I dunno. Like eight months, at least?”_

_“It took you that long?!”_

_“We were a little distracted, Gally. We got there eventually.”_

_“Eight months…”_

_“Yeah, but this time? If it comes down to it and we have to get into Headquarters again?”_

_“Hmm?”_

_“I bet I could do it in three.”_

_“Three months… that’s not so bad. That’s doable.”_

_“…doable?”_

_“I bet you won’t make it that fast, you’re overestimating.”_

_“Fuck off.”_

_“No, seriously. Eight months down to three is impossible.”_

_“Watch me.”_

_“Right. Fine. You’ve got three months from when we get out of here to drag my ass around that City and say I told you so.”_

_“It’s a date.”_

_“Don’t make it weird, Thomas. Three months. Don’t forget.”_

And he wouldn’t.

He just hoped Gally would be there to meet him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know what to say in the notes. Please don't kill me. 
> 
> You might be wondering "well wtf is the last chapter gonna be?!" 
> 
> You'll see. This fic will be finished by tomorrow night, just FYI. And then it's time for the sequel! Wooo!


	20. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> End.

WICKED Memorandum, Date 232.1.15, Time 22:45

TO: My Associates

FROM: Ava Paige, Chancellor

RE: THOUGHTS ON MAZE TRIALS, Group A

 

By any reckoning, I think we’d all agree that the Trials were a success. Forty-three survivors, all well qualified for our planned endeavor. The number of survivors is completely off the charts and will do nothing but increase our chances in the long run. The response to the variables were satisfactory and encouraging—if unexpected. The boy’s murder and the “rescue” proved to be a valuable finale. We needed to shock their systems, see their responses. Clearly, they are far more resilient than we expected, based on the data collected. Honestly, I’m amazed that in the end, despite everything, we were able to collect such a large population of kids that just never gave up.

Oddly enough, seeing them this way, thinking all is well, has been the hardest thing for me to observe. But there’s no time for regret. For the good of our people, we will move forward.

I know I have my own feelings as to who should be chosen as the leader, but I’ll refrain from saying at this time so as not to influence any decisions. But to me, it’s an obvious choice.

We are well aware of what’s at stake. I, for one, am encouraged. Given the response to the first variable, and his ability to quickly bond with others, and the quick wit, we have a good chance at being able to sway them all if we can sway one. His results were through the roof and clearly he should not be underestimated.

The subjects will eventually recall and understand the purpose of the hard things we have done and plan to do to them. The mission of WICKED is to serve and preserve humanity, no matter the cost. We are, indeed, “good”.

Please respond with your own reactions. The subjects will be allowed one night’s full sleep before Stage 2 implementation. At this time, let’s allow ourselves to feel hopeful.

Group B’s trial results were also most extraordinary. I need time to process the data, but we can touch on it in the morning.

Until tomorrow, then.

 

 

 

**END OF BOOK ONE**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, we did it. We finished. This is insane! Thank you so much for all of the support and for even reading this little story of mine; it has received far more love and attention than I ever thought it would. I didn't even know we had this many people in our fandom! 
> 
> Hold onto your horses for the sequel, guys. Gonna be a bumpy ride.


End file.
